“A little of both,” said Martha, taking the conversational lead again. She stepped closer to Mrs. Clemens, putting herself between me and the door, as she continued. “We’re enjoying the sights, and I’m doing some library research. And we plan to go up to Scotland, to discover our families’ history—I’m a Patterson originally, and of course the McPhees were Scottish, too.”
“A Patterson?” Mrs. Clemens looked more closely at Martha McPhee’s face. “There were Pattersons living close to us in Elmira, New York, where I grew up. Do you have family there?”
“Not that I know of, Mrs. Clemens,” said Martha. “I grew up in Chicago, and my family came from Baltimore before then. But I suppose it’s possible they were related to the Pattersons you knew.”
“Perhaps you’ll learn that on your visit to Scotland,” said Mrs. Clemens. Then she looked at her husband. “But we shouldn’t keep you standing on the porch all this time. Why don’t you invite your friends inside, Sam?” By now, the sky was beginning to darken.
“Oh, we couldn’t intrude,” said Martha. “I know you must all be getting ready to sit down and eat, and we should be getting home to supper, ourselves.”
“Still, I insist you step inside at least long enough for a cup of tea, or a glass of lemonade,” said Mrs. Clemens, beckoning to them. “After all, we owe you that much just for giving poor Wentworth a ride home. I’m sure he’d be hopelessly lost if not for you.”
At that, Mr. Clemens found himself speechless—as did I. Hopelessly lost indeed! With a sigh, my employer admitted defeat. He stepped aside and waved us all through the door, although he sent a particularly evil glance in my direction as I passed him. I rolled my eyes and shrugged in response; I was as puzzled as he at Mrs. Clemens’s open invitation, after she knew what visitors stood on her doorstep.
Inside, we sat in the gaslit front parlor as Mrs. Clemens rang for a servant to bring us drinks. We were joined there by Mr. Clemens’s oldest daughter, Susy, a fair-haired young woman a couple of years older than I. Susy was bright and sensitive—she had spent a year at Bryn Mawr college—but I had the strong impression that she was unhappy with her present state of life. London seemed to bore her, a sentiment I found incomprehensible. Then again, I had not had the experience of seeing my family fall into financial difficulties, as had the Clemens children.
Mrs. Clemens played the hostess in exemplary fashion, even to a couple of dubious character—I knew that her husband had told her in detail about the doings of Slippery Ed McPhee on our riverboat journey. These had included a suspiciously steady winning streak at poker, as well as his running a fraudulent “game” called three-card monte.
Mrs. Clemens showed the McPhees to comfortable seats on the large davenport facing the mantelpiece. While we waited for the refreshments to arrive, she engaged Mrs. McPhee in conversation as if Martha were a proper young woman whom Mrs. Clemens had just met at a church social. As I had seen before, Martha was everything that her husband was not—charming, well-spoken, and quite capable of holding her own in the most respectable company.
Mr. Clemens sat next to the fireplace, swirling his glass of whisky and soda, doing his best not to scowl at McPhee—or me. Finally he broke into the conversation to ask, “Well, Ed, your young lady says you’ve quit gambling. If it’s true, I’m glad to hear it. But I wonder—what are you doing to make ends meet these days? It can’t be easy for an American to find work over here in London.”
“Well, Sam,” said McPhee, “what made me look at my life and change my ways was when my sweet Martha found out she had a gift, so to say. And that made me bound and determined to see that she didn’t hide her light under a bucket, you know? This here young lady can bring help and consolation and advice to folks all around the world, and durn if I’m not going to see that she gets to do it. So I guess you could say I’m working to promote Martha.”
“A gift?” asked Mrs. Clemens, curiosity evident on her face. She turned to Martha and asked, “What sort of gift is that? Do you sing, perhaps?”
Martha blushed prettily, but it was Slippery Ed who answered. “Well, the young lady has what you might call a spiritual gift—” he began.
“Damnation, I should have known it!” said Mr. Clemens, setting down his class abruptly. “McPhee, have you gone into the spiritualism racket?”
“Well, it ain’t exactly a racket—” began McPhee, but his wife cut him off with a gesture.
“I understand your concern, Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee. “I am sad to say that there are far too many fraudulent mediums and spiritualists, who do no more than prey on the unwary. Only the most naive would deny this. But there are dishonest and unscrupulous men in every profession. Quack doctors, greedy ministers—why, I’d wager there are writers whom you would consider frauds.” She smiled brightly at Mr. Clemens, then continued. “But we do not blame the good ones for some of their colleagues’ lapses. We should not throw out the baby with the bathwater.”
Martha gazed sincerely at each of us in turn as she spoke. I found myself wanting to believe her, but I could not forget that this deceptively innocent young woman had concealed her true relation to McPhee in order to cultivate my friendship, then induced me to risk (and lose) my money on his monte game. Why should I suppose that she and her husband had really reformed?
Mr. Clemens was about to make some
