The Adventures of Allegra Fullerton (22 page)

SEVENTEEN

My return

H
ow can I describe my delight when Gibbon Spooner called to me as I descended onto the station platform in Boston? At that instant I felt a flush of excitement and possibility, as if embarking beneath a wide sunny sky into a new life. There was to be no hailing of hackneys, no rooming at an hotel, no confusion of arrival and baggage-masters that evening. I was being shepherded back into the graces of the Spooner family, who had been apprised of my return, I now learned, by the faithful Mr. Dana.

“We once thought we had lost you forever, Mrs. Fullerton,” Gibbon said. “We had no idea what might have happened to you. It's wonderful to see you again and finally to believe that you are indeed alive, and surely well. Father was beside himself when Mr. Dana called upon us with the news. And he insists that you stay with us-—Mother has prepared a room—until you find comfortable quarters of your own. Father has been looking for something suitable. Nearby us in Roxbury. But of course we can discuss all that later. He'll never forgive me if we delay his seeing you a moment longer.”

He helped me into his buggy, secured my baggage behind us, and stepped up to sit beside me with the reigns poised. “Ready, then?” he said.

“Very ready,” I answered, and he snapped the horse into a trot.

“And Julian?” I asked. “Where on earth is friend Julian?”

“He had just left us to be with his mother in Gloucester when the news of your returning came. We sent him a letter, and he'll be back as soon as he can. It seems that his mother is recovering, finally, from some sort of congestive fever.”

I was soon welcomed once again into the Spooner household, almost as if I were a returning daughter and sister, rather than a mere pupil and friend. I can only assume that the pitch of this reunion was in part a response, in Mr. Spooner's words, to my “miraculous resurrection.”

They had all returned some months ago from Italy, had even begun selectively to send out their calling cards and receive visitors, but the journey was still on their minds and in their talk. I went before long, however, to my room, which was private and comfortable. Mr. Spooner mentioned just before I retired that he had found modest rooms for me to consider. There was, he said, good light and an opportunity to rent by the month. The landlady had agreed to hold them, on a small consideration, for a day or two.

I went to bed in a state of some disquiet, not only for the excitement of this reunion, but for thinking about meeting Mr. Dana. His circumstances had changed as well. He was a married man with a newborn daughter, his own law practice, and a growing reputation as a lecturer and man of letters, ever since the publication nearly two years ago of a book about his experiences as a common sailor in the California fur trade.

We met, as it turned out, on the third day of my return. I did not wish to call on him at home and, upon inquiry, found that he was exceptionally busy in his Court Street office, having recently returned from abroad. So at his suggestion, we met at the end of day by the Frog Pond in Boston Common—that great verdurous Lung to the throbbing city-heart where all go to find renovation and healing.

It was a pleasantly warm, dry evening, the late sun casting a russet, almost autumnal hue through the graceful arches of foliage overhead onto the broad, dappled aisles where young women promenaded with their men, schoolgirls beat hoops roundabout, mothers took their little boys and girls in hand, and young gentlemen flashed their gloves and canes. No “
milch kine
” as of old here now, but as I approached the pond, dogs were plunging in and out and swimming with their noses in the air, snapping at floating chips, or emerging to shake themselves near fashionable gowns and pantaloons.

Farther along, I noticed boys casting twine and pin-hooks for horned pout, and as I approached our rendezvous, I saw many more boys sailing miniature vessels. These youngsters appeared to be quite skillful in the management of their shipping—everything from a full-rigged man-of-war to schooners and pilot boats. To my untrained eye these looked perfectly identical to real ships in every way, except in size, yet some of these attained a length of perhaps three feet.

And then I saw Mr. Dana speaking to a few of these boys about their vessel, answering a question or suggesting a tactic. Approaching him, I heard an unintelligible palaver of main gaff-topsails and jibs, after shrouds and forestaysails, beckets and boltropes. When he sent the boys on their way, I spoke his name and he turned quickly to hold out both hands in greeting.

“You look so bright and healthy and determined, Mrs. Fullerton,” he said. He lightly took my arm and turned us a little out of the way toward an old elm, while we exchanged pleasantries and, for my part, congratulations on his marriage and family.

“Pleased as I am to see you again, Mrs. Fullerton,” he said as we stopped and turned back toward the young ship masters on the pond, “and to see that you are in good color and flesh, I confess I am deeply troubled by your brother Tom's behavior—at the worst conceivable moment, I mean, following upon this Dudley fellow's demise.”

He paused before going on; I said nothing yet. “To flee his work and his rooms,” he continued, “his position in Lowell, beyond the bounds of the Commonwealth! Indeed, such poltroonery drew immediate attention to him. He cast his cloak of innocence upon the ground, or in the very face of the sheriff. And it was inevitable, given your accusations against Dudley to members of the Female Reform Society, that officers of the law would find their way to both of you.”

“News in the textile trade travels quickly, Mr. Dana,” I said. “Tom heard that Mr. Dudley's body had been discovered on the road. Tom was fully aware of every line of connection you mention. He thought it best to lie low for a time, but when he received your letter in Canterbury, he grew convinced that no one would believe in his innocence.”

“He has finally come to his senses, I trust! An innocent man faces openly all suspicion and all charges, if it comes to that, laid against him.”

“Tom has gone abroad, Mr. Dana.”

He bent his head toward the ground and sighed. I watched as two rough-looking tars, off vessels in port no doubt, spoke to some of the boy-navigators. Judging by their signs and gesticulations, they advised as to determining the slightest prevailing breeze.

Mr. Dana finally looked up, watched a moment these same nautical proceedings, as if gathering his breath, and spoke softly. “Then Tom has done himself a great disservice.”

“He didn't want me tangled in any proceedings either, Mr. Dana. Tom's always been a most considerate and true friend.”

“But to flee, to flee abroad, has every appearance of an admission of guilt, not to speak of appearing to have suborned you in the process.”

He touched a tender nerve. I had to pause in order to gather my resolve once more. “Be that as it may, Mr. Dana,” I said, “he couldn't take the chance. He has nothing to offer in this Dudley affair, and I imagine they'll find their man without Tom's help. Can't they just leave him alone now? He is, in effect, unreachable in any case.”

He thought a moment. “Well, they will not go abroad on a desperate, aleatory search for him. And given his flight, he'll never be able to return until the entire matter is resolved to his exoneration. If indeed it is ever resolved.”

“They'll want to speak to me.”

“Assuredly. You must tell them everything you have told me.” He looked carefully into my eyes, as if to convince himself that I was not paltering. “I'll let them know.”

“Then I owe you another debt, Mr. Dana. You've already told them the general circumstances of my captivity, I take it.”

“Yes. And they have been discerning. You should tell them honestly everything that happened to you while in bondage to Dudley. I think they'll come to believe you once the details are made clear. It will not be the first time they've heard such a story.”

We turned to watch the boys once more. Like overseers from nations on opposite shores, a boy would send his vessel from one side of the pond to a boy on the other. Some of the boy magnates directed their merchant ships before an entourage of little burghers.

“I'm sure that more recent crimes have gathered their attention these days,” Mr. Dana said finally. “Perhaps after speaking to you they'll leave off this angle of approach, after all.”

“I should hope so, Mr. Dana, for Tom's sake. As you can see, these events have gone beyond my humble capacity to control or understand them—Dudley's miserable end, Tom's going abroad. I can only return to my studies, once again under Mr. Spooner's tutelage.”

“You are fortunate for all that, Mrs. Fullerton.”

Somewhere in the shadows of the leafy arcades above us the first thrush trilled. We both looked up. “Have you ever walked here in the morning, Mr. Dana, before the city is awake?”

“Yes, I have. The birds, you mean?”

“By the thousands, it must be. Singing their matins.”

“The poet's ‘glorious food of love.'” He laughed lightly. “There's hardly a more pleasant place in the world, in my travels at any rate, to take in such music.”

“When I could not sleep mornings after first arriving in Boston, I'd wake up Tom and out we'd stroll into the very thick of their arias. I was then always reminded of awakening into song on mornings beside my husband, yet even so I found my spirits elevated once again with only my brother for a companion.”

He looked at me with understanding in his eyes and said nothing more. So I congratulated him on the remarkable success of his first book.

“Oh, they hawk it now in the very bookshops of Cornhill! But I was given a rough go of it all the while I tried to get the thing published, I can tell you.” As he began to speak about this humbling and unremunerative experience, he walked me to the omnibi stand, and then we rode together to Roxbury.

D
URING THE FOLLOWING
week Julian returned from Gloucester. He had grown a little mustache and, I believe, had dyed it russet somehow, as if to spite his beautiful golden hair. He seemed otherwise to be the same old Julian.

He told us that his mother had turned for the better, and he was as animated over my return as anyone. The conviviality, the warmth these friends expressed toward me was deeply pleasing; they rekindled in me that flush of renewal and possibility that I had felt upon first meeting Gibbon at the railway station house.

“You must go yourself to Italy, Allegra,” Julian said more than once that evening. “It is impossible for us in America to experience the new sensibility one gains from viewing the old masters. I felt as if I had been living as a blind man in the world, but suddenly the scales fell from my eyes and I now am saluted on every side by grace and beauty.”

“Raphael's Madonnas
are
miracles in color and form,” Gibbon offered.

“It is rather like being perpetually intoxicated!” Julian said, raising his empty wine glass. “And I had never before seen an old building, a true ruin, the true power of architecture. We might have traveled from these United States into fairyland: such buildings, vistas, gardens, sculptures! You must see the Riccardi Palace in Florence, Allegra, while you are on this earth.” He stood up and busied himself refilling our wine glasses.

“And the mere casts we see here are wholly inadequate by comparison,” Gibbon said. “The originals arrest and thrill you quite differently.”

“You feel as if you have been
ravished
by gods,” Julian said as he made his rounds. “It is simply another order of experience!”

“This is not some mere technical harmony Julian and Gibbon speak of, Allegra,” Mr. Spooner said. “The immortality of these great works comes from the quality of reflection—the mind of the artist—they express. You learn to appreciate the Italian tradition of the artist as a man of soul and learning.”

“In their presence, one even comes to forget the horrors of travel,” Julian put in and laughed. “The misunderstandings of translation, the dishonesty of porters, the homesickness, the noise and bustle of cities, the fear of encountering banditti, to say nothing of these dreadful crossings by sea.”

“We encountered no bandits, Julian,” Gibbon said.

“Not personally, my dear Gibbon. But we heard of them and were forewarned. Let us say, at least, that travel becomes more piquant by their mere presence.” Back at his chair, Julian remained standing. He held the wine decanter aloft and made as if to engage, passado, in swordplay with highwaymen. Gibbon and I began to laugh.

Then I thought of Tom, and his quite different “travels.” For just the previous day I had a tightly sealed letter from him, carefully composed to give nothing away and sent at the last moment before his departure. They had forwarded it to me in Boston.