TGFM: The Great Finale.
Alright, let's talk about Big Misunderstandings.
The biggest misunderstanding so far has been when Bess heard "a lady broke my heart, screw her" as "I am plighted to this woman forever." Somehow, it's been impossible to disabuse her of this. Perhaps it is wishful thinking. But it must contort onward:
Lizzie and Elizabeth's (so confusing) grandmother is reading society notes and announces that G. P. Benedict is in town. This leads Geraldine Loring's name to be raised, and described as throwing over a duke and possibly setting her sights on Mr. GPB again. He may have gone off to Montana to forget her, but Bessie panics and once again wipes her little mind clean of "hang the lady!"
Lizzie rattled on, and the grandmother read more society notes, but Elizabeth heard no more. Her hear had suddenly frozen, and dropped down like lead into her being. She felt as if she never would be able to raise it again. The lady! Surely she had forgotten the lady. But Geraldine Loring! Of all women! Could it be possible? Geraldine Loring was almost-well, fast, at least, as nearly so as one who was really of a fine old family, and still held her own in society, could be. She was beautiful as a picture; but her face, to Elizabeth's mind, was lacking in fine feeling and intellect. A great pity went out from her heart to the man whose fate was in that doll-girl's hands. True, she had heard that Miss Loring's family were unquestionable, and she knew her mother was a most charming woman. Perhaps she had misjudged her. She must have done so if he cared for her, for it could not be otherwise.
She panics. And then G. P. Benedict is going to visit, but she has already introduced his existence as "a man I knew in Montana" to her society-conscious grandmother, who grabs her and sprints off on an international cruise before Elizabeth can mention he is G. P. Benedict and perhaps she has made his acquaintance already? So Elizabeth writes him a cryptic note to say goodbye and includes a book about Jesus. She does not include her last name, because after wanting to introduce him to her grandmother she's suddenly decided to cut him out of her life again. Her note begins "My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for her health."
The noon train to New York carried in its drawing-room-car Madam Bailey, her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for Europe. The society columns so stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days afterward. So also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing to him.
It works pretty well! And there is no connection made in his mind between the grandmother going away for her health and the continent-striding, well-dressed girl going with her grandmother for her health. We will give him a pass, lots of grandmothers were doubtless going away for their health. What we won't give him is a pass for:
He went to the telephone, and reflected that he knew no names.
It's okay, he drove her to her house.
He called up his automobile, and tore up to Flora Street; but in his bewilderment of the night before he had not noticed which block the house was in, nor which number. He thought he knew where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses were all alike for three blocks, and for the life of him he could not remember whether he had turned up to the right or the left when he came to Flora Street. He tried both, but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed at Willow Grove.
I'm not sure what else I expected.
He could not ask where she lived, for he did not know her name. Nothing but Elizabeth, and they had called her Bessie. He could not go from house to house asking for a girl named Bessie. They would think him a fool,
Let's just leave G. P. Benedict passing up his lone hint and thinking to himself:
She would come back sometime probably. She had not said so, but she had not said she would not.
Meanwhile:
And it never once entered her mind that, if she had told her grandmother who the friend in Montana was, and where he lived in Philadelphia, it would have made all the difference in the world.
I am terrified for their future offspring. Elizabeth goes off dutifully, witnesses to her dying grandmother, mourns her, and then goes back home to her other grandmother's words:
"That feller o' yours 'n his oughtymobble has been goin' up an' down this street, day in, day out, this whole blessed summer. Ain't been a day he didn't pass, sometimes once, sometimes twicet. I felt sorry fer him sometimes. Ef he hadn't been so high an' mighty stuck up that he couldn't recognize me, I'd 'a' spoke to him. It was plain ez the nose on your face he was lookin' fer you. Don't he know where you live?"
"I don't believe he does," said Elizabeth languidly.
Ah, the voice of love. Seriously, Elizabeth seems to spend a lot of the time being persuaded by the rest of the book that she cares for the turkey. But her grandmother has died and she is alone in her home. How will Elizabeth cope?
But the house seemed great and empty when she entered, and she was glad to hear the friendly telephone bell ringing. It was the wife of her pastor, asking her to come to them for a quiet dinner.
This was the one home in the great city where she felt like going in her loneliness. There would be no form nor ceremony. Just a friend with them. It was good. The doctor would give her some helpful words. She was glad they had asked her.
I'm not sure if Grace usually uses this very simple style. It used to back up Elizabeth's childlike sort of aura, at least when she wasn't threatening to shoot people. But it's still showing up now.
"George," said Mrs. Vincent Benedict, "I want you to do something for me."
"Certainly, mother, anything I can."
"Well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. Our pastor's wife has telephoned me that she wants us very much. She especially emphasized you. She said she absolutely needed you. It was a case of charity, and she would be so grateful to you if you would come. She has a young friend with her who is very sad, and she wants to cheer her up. Now don't frown. I won't bother you again this week. I know you hate dinners and girls
He likes long drives and girls!
"Why, she's a Miss Bailey," said the mother, relieved. "Mrs. Wilton Merrill Bailey's granddaughter. Did you ever happen to meet her? I never did."
"Never heard of her," growled George. "Wish I hadn't now."
There is just no helping G. P. Benedict.
"Elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her hand. "I have found you again. How came you here?"
But she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies entered almost at once, and there stood the two smiling at each other.
"Why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. "How delighted I am! I knew you two would enjoy meeting. Elizabeth, child, you never told me you knew George."
George Benedict kept looking around for Miss Bailey to enter the room; but to his relief she did not come, and, when they went out to the dining-room, there was no place set for her. She must have preferred to remain at home. He forgot her, and settled down to the joy of having Elizabeth by his side. His mother, opposite, watched his face blossom into the old-time joy as he handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes for no one else.
Absolutely none. George, you dope. You met this girl once. You lost her for three years. You found her again. You lost her for a summer while you drove up and down the road. You met her again. You didn't ask her name, you were busy passing her olives.
It was not until the evening was over, and the guests were about to leave, that Mrs. Benedict addressed Elizabeth as Miss Bailey. Up to that moment it had not entered her son's mind that Miss Bailey was present at all. He turned with a start, and looked into Elizabeth's eyes; and she smiled back to him as if to acknowledge the name. Could she read his thoughts? he wondered.
I am starting to become uneasy with this match because G. P. Benedict has the intellect of a turtle and I'm not sure I can go along with this sort of thing.
So Elizabeth hears that The Lady is going to be married, assumes it is still G. P. Benedict, and goes roaring off to Montana again figuring that now she's rich, the men from the first part of the book can't trouble her. G. P. Benedict reacts:
"Gone?" said George Benedict, standing blankly on the door-step and looking down the street as if that should bring her. "Gone? To Chicago, did you say?"
So now it is G. P. Benedict rushing to the rescue! It is time for him to rise to the level of basic competence!
"Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board the train, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." He started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go? The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be useless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down toward Chestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him. "O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"
Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile, sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict stopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,
No. He will run down the road and fling himself under the first oncoming car.
and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over on the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted: "Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say, but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway? Hustle in, and I'll take you there."
Somebody else will drive as if driven by seven devils, pulling George along in his wake like a rubber ducky.
By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time to consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was headed toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or vainly shouting policemen.
Then they will head off by chance and end up in the right spot, where George, leaving his menace friend in the car, will have to finally draw on his reserves and do something himself:
George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell again. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore into the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three steps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's just starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the platform of the last car.
None of these helpers have faces or names. George's friend in the car is Billy, that's all we get, and this person is literally just a hand. So George presses onward to find if he has the right train. And he finds her!
"Elizabeth!" He stood in the open door and called to her; and she started as from a deep sleep, her face blazing into glad sunshine at sight of him. She put her hand to her heart, and smiled.
"I have brought you some flowers," he said grimly. "I am afraid there isn't much left of them now; but, such as they are, they are here. I hope you will accept them."
So after some protesting they sort out their Big Misunderstanding (the lady is marrying some distant relative of his, and Elizabeth and her Cousin Lizzie should know something about that.) They confess to the conductor that they're idiots and he lets them off the train.
They wed. Elizabeth does some good deeds for her cousin. They do some good deeds for the lady out west that told Elizabeth it wasn't right for ladies and gentlemen to travel alone. They give the cabin a makeover and a garage, which is kind of odd because there was never any mention of a road going to it, but I guess there is now, and they build a church. Having gone out to Montana, they finally put a couple of missionaries in the newly refurnished cabin/home and... go back to Philadelphia, so I guess that was a church-founding honeymoon.
We never find out about that mine or the murdered dude and the horse, Robin, completely vanished after its makeover. The horse probably would have got her there only half as fast as a train. Nonetheless, that was The Girl From Montana.
The biggest misunderstanding so far has been when Bess heard "a lady broke my heart, screw her" as "I am plighted to this woman forever." Somehow, it's been impossible to disabuse her of this. Perhaps it is wishful thinking. But it must contort onward:
Lizzie and Elizabeth's (so confusing) grandmother is reading society notes and announces that G. P. Benedict is in town. This leads Geraldine Loring's name to be raised, and described as throwing over a duke and possibly setting her sights on Mr. GPB again. He may have gone off to Montana to forget her, but Bessie panics and once again wipes her little mind clean of "hang the lady!"
Lizzie rattled on, and the grandmother read more society notes, but Elizabeth heard no more. Her hear had suddenly frozen, and dropped down like lead into her being. She felt as if she never would be able to raise it again. The lady! Surely she had forgotten the lady. But Geraldine Loring! Of all women! Could it be possible? Geraldine Loring was almost-well, fast, at least, as nearly so as one who was really of a fine old family, and still held her own in society, could be. She was beautiful as a picture; but her face, to Elizabeth's mind, was lacking in fine feeling and intellect. A great pity went out from her heart to the man whose fate was in that doll-girl's hands. True, she had heard that Miss Loring's family were unquestionable, and she knew her mother was a most charming woman. Perhaps she had misjudged her. She must have done so if he cared for her, for it could not be otherwise.
She panics. And then G. P. Benedict is going to visit, but she has already introduced his existence as "a man I knew in Montana" to her society-conscious grandmother, who grabs her and sprints off on an international cruise before Elizabeth can mention he is G. P. Benedict and perhaps she has made his acquaintance already? So Elizabeth writes him a cryptic note to say goodbye and includes a book about Jesus. She does not include her last name, because after wanting to introduce him to her grandmother she's suddenly decided to cut him out of her life again. Her note begins "My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for her health."
The noon train to New York carried in its drawing-room-car Madam Bailey, her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for Europe. The society columns so stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days afterward. So also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing to him.
It works pretty well! And there is no connection made in his mind between the grandmother going away for her health and the continent-striding, well-dressed girl going with her grandmother for her health. We will give him a pass, lots of grandmothers were doubtless going away for their health. What we won't give him is a pass for:
He went to the telephone, and reflected that he knew no names.
It's okay, he drove her to her house.
He called up his automobile, and tore up to Flora Street; but in his bewilderment of the night before he had not noticed which block the house was in, nor which number. He thought he knew where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses were all alike for three blocks, and for the life of him he could not remember whether he had turned up to the right or the left when he came to Flora Street. He tried both, but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed at Willow Grove.
I'm not sure what else I expected.
He could not ask where she lived, for he did not know her name. Nothing but Elizabeth, and they had called her Bessie. He could not go from house to house asking for a girl named Bessie. They would think him a fool,
Let's just leave G. P. Benedict passing up his lone hint and thinking to himself:
She would come back sometime probably. She had not said so, but she had not said she would not.
Meanwhile:
And it never once entered her mind that, if she had told her grandmother who the friend in Montana was, and where he lived in Philadelphia, it would have made all the difference in the world.
I am terrified for their future offspring. Elizabeth goes off dutifully, witnesses to her dying grandmother, mourns her, and then goes back home to her other grandmother's words:
"That feller o' yours 'n his oughtymobble has been goin' up an' down this street, day in, day out, this whole blessed summer. Ain't been a day he didn't pass, sometimes once, sometimes twicet. I felt sorry fer him sometimes. Ef he hadn't been so high an' mighty stuck up that he couldn't recognize me, I'd 'a' spoke to him. It was plain ez the nose on your face he was lookin' fer you. Don't he know where you live?"
"I don't believe he does," said Elizabeth languidly.
Ah, the voice of love. Seriously, Elizabeth seems to spend a lot of the time being persuaded by the rest of the book that she cares for the turkey. But her grandmother has died and she is alone in her home. How will Elizabeth cope?
But the house seemed great and empty when she entered, and she was glad to hear the friendly telephone bell ringing. It was the wife of her pastor, asking her to come to them for a quiet dinner.
This was the one home in the great city where she felt like going in her loneliness. There would be no form nor ceremony. Just a friend with them. It was good. The doctor would give her some helpful words. She was glad they had asked her.
I'm not sure if Grace usually uses this very simple style. It used to back up Elizabeth's childlike sort of aura, at least when she wasn't threatening to shoot people. But it's still showing up now.
"George," said Mrs. Vincent Benedict, "I want you to do something for me."
"Certainly, mother, anything I can."
"Well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. Our pastor's wife has telephoned me that she wants us very much. She especially emphasized you. She said she absolutely needed you. It was a case of charity, and she would be so grateful to you if you would come. She has a young friend with her who is very sad, and she wants to cheer her up. Now don't frown. I won't bother you again this week. I know you hate dinners and girls
He likes long drives and girls!
"Why, she's a Miss Bailey," said the mother, relieved. "Mrs. Wilton Merrill Bailey's granddaughter. Did you ever happen to meet her? I never did."
"Never heard of her," growled George. "Wish I hadn't now."
There is just no helping G. P. Benedict.
"Elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her hand. "I have found you again. How came you here?"
But she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies entered almost at once, and there stood the two smiling at each other.
"Why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. "How delighted I am! I knew you two would enjoy meeting. Elizabeth, child, you never told me you knew George."
George Benedict kept looking around for Miss Bailey to enter the room; but to his relief she did not come, and, when they went out to the dining-room, there was no place set for her. She must have preferred to remain at home. He forgot her, and settled down to the joy of having Elizabeth by his side. His mother, opposite, watched his face blossom into the old-time joy as he handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes for no one else.
Absolutely none. George, you dope. You met this girl once. You lost her for three years. You found her again. You lost her for a summer while you drove up and down the road. You met her again. You didn't ask her name, you were busy passing her olives.
It was not until the evening was over, and the guests were about to leave, that Mrs. Benedict addressed Elizabeth as Miss Bailey. Up to that moment it had not entered her son's mind that Miss Bailey was present at all. He turned with a start, and looked into Elizabeth's eyes; and she smiled back to him as if to acknowledge the name. Could she read his thoughts? he wondered.
I am starting to become uneasy with this match because G. P. Benedict has the intellect of a turtle and I'm not sure I can go along with this sort of thing.
So Elizabeth hears that The Lady is going to be married, assumes it is still G. P. Benedict, and goes roaring off to Montana again figuring that now she's rich, the men from the first part of the book can't trouble her. G. P. Benedict reacts:
"Gone?" said George Benedict, standing blankly on the door-step and looking down the street as if that should bring her. "Gone? To Chicago, did you say?"
So now it is G. P. Benedict rushing to the rescue! It is time for him to rise to the level of basic competence!
"Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board the train, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." He started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go? The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be useless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down toward Chestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him. "O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"
Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile, sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict stopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,
No. He will run down the road and fling himself under the first oncoming car.
and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over on the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted: "Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say, but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway? Hustle in, and I'll take you there."
Somebody else will drive as if driven by seven devils, pulling George along in his wake like a rubber ducky.
By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time to consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was headed toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or vainly shouting policemen.
Then they will head off by chance and end up in the right spot, where George, leaving his menace friend in the car, will have to finally draw on his reserves and do something himself:
George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell again. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore into the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three steps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's just starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the platform of the last car.
None of these helpers have faces or names. George's friend in the car is Billy, that's all we get, and this person is literally just a hand. So George presses onward to find if he has the right train. And he finds her!
"Elizabeth!" He stood in the open door and called to her; and she started as from a deep sleep, her face blazing into glad sunshine at sight of him. She put her hand to her heart, and smiled.
"I have brought you some flowers," he said grimly. "I am afraid there isn't much left of them now; but, such as they are, they are here. I hope you will accept them."
So after some protesting they sort out their Big Misunderstanding (the lady is marrying some distant relative of his, and Elizabeth and her Cousin Lizzie should know something about that.) They confess to the conductor that they're idiots and he lets them off the train.
They wed. Elizabeth does some good deeds for her cousin. They do some good deeds for the lady out west that told Elizabeth it wasn't right for ladies and gentlemen to travel alone. They give the cabin a makeover and a garage, which is kind of odd because there was never any mention of a road going to it, but I guess there is now, and they build a church. Having gone out to Montana, they finally put a couple of missionaries in the newly refurnished cabin/home and... go back to Philadelphia, so I guess that was a church-founding honeymoon.
We never find out about that mine or the murdered dude and the horse, Robin, completely vanished after its makeover. The horse probably would have got her there only half as fast as a train. Nonetheless, that was The Girl From Montana.