Sincerely, Willis Wayde (43 page)

After all, he was paying Miss Farquahr a substantial weekly wage, and it seemed to him that whenever she was wanted Miss Farquahr was indulging in necessary rest periods.

“I haven't a minute now, Mr. Wayde,” Miss Farquahr told him. “I think Alfred would be quiet if you were to read to him. He's interested in
Peter Rabbit
. Mrs. Wayde read it through to him five times yesterday and he sat on the bed as quiet as a little mousey.”

“All right,” Willis said. “If you get it, I'll read it to him.”

If he had a minute or two longer he might be able to conclude his letter to Mr. Bryson Harcourt.

“
Peter Rabbit
is right on the easy chair by the fireplace,” Miss Farquahr said. “Alfred sees it now. Alfred, give
Peter Rabbit
to Daddy, and Daddy read to Alfred.”

Then Miss Farquahr was gone and Willis and Alfred were alone again in the living room.

“Alfred,” Willis said, “sit down and look at the pretty pictures. Sit down and be quiet, Alfred.”

Alfred seemingly respected the change in his father's voice. He sat down quietly on the living-room rug. Of course, it was not a quiet that would last, but it gave Willis an opportunity to collect his thoughts. It was not literally true that he had to go up to Boston to make a few calls, but the statement sounded well.

If you will write me—or better, send me a wire—I can arrange my schedule to fit yours.

It will be a genuine pleasure to see you again and to talk over old times. I hope that Mrs. Harcourt and Bill and Bess are all well and that you are enjoying a good winter.

Sincerely, as always,

Little Al was becoming restive again.

“Here, Al,” Willis told him, “sit down on Daddy's knee. ‘Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived …'”

Although Willis tried to put suspense and conviction into his reading, Alfred would not stay still.

He dropped Alfred hastily to the floor and looked down at his carefully pressed trousers.

“Miss Farquahr!” he shouted. “Would you mind coming down here? Quickly, please, Miss Farquahr.”

Thinking it over later, Willis could see that there were a number of things wrong about his letter. If he had done it in the office after hours he could have given his whole mind to the composition. The unevenness and the strike-overs must have shown Mr. Harcourt that it was a home-written effort, and of course it was hastily phrased, but it never occurred to Willis for a moment that Mr. Bryson Harcourt would have thought the letter was merely an application for a job. He was shocked when he found a letter on his desk at Rahway three days later.

“Roger and I delighted if you can return to us again,” the telegram read. “Meet me at my house, Beacon Street, five-thirty Tuesday, and please stay to dinner.”

There was an overcordiality in the telegram that indicated Bryson Harcourt's transparency. Old H.H. would never have sent such a telegram, but it was clear that Willis was still favorably remembered back at the Harcourt Mill. There was also an indication that things were not going well, since they were overanxious to have him back.

“Delighted to meet you five-thirty Tuesday,” he wired. “Sorry gave impression seeking position because am happy here.”

He wanted to make it plain from the start that he expected no favors. In the last analysis he was presenting a simple business proposition which even Bryson Harcourt would readily understand.

Boston had been off the track for Willis Wayde for many years, except for fleeting visits with Sylvia to Craigie Street in Cambridge. He had only been back to the city once, businesswise, since he had left the Harcourt Mill, and that was for Beakney-Graham. He had gone on this occasion with Mr. Beakney as a part of what Mr. Beakney called a “presentation team.” The presentation team had occupied cramped quarters in the Hotel Statler, while Mr. Beakney had resided in a comfortable suite at the Ritz-Carlton overlooking the Public Garden.

If you were out after a big account, Mr. Beakney would say, a little extra expense money was very often a mighty fine investment. By this he did not mean ostentation, Mr. Beakney used to say, but quiet dignity without a trace of brashness. A well-tailored, unobtrusive suit of clothes, Mr. Beakney used to say, plus the right tie and a well-shined pair of shoes, plus an expensive but worn suitcase, and a fountain pen that wrote at the right time—all these minor factors were better than an hour of sales presentation. Appearance and confidence meant as much as words, Mr. Beakney used to say, and a sound hotel address would back up all those other details.

It was advisable never to forget that someone from your client's office might drop into your room with a message or something. It was always advisable to keep things shipshape, and he wanted everyone who traveled for Beakney-Graham to have a photograph on his bureau of his mother, or of his wife and children. The thought that a man cared about his home had a fine effect on anyone who might drop in. Seriously, as Mr. Beakney used to say, you might as well face it—America was a woman's world. For instance, wasn't 80 per cent of the national income controlled by women? You had better love your mother if you worked for Beakney-Graham.

XX

Willis had spent many hours planning his approach to Mr. Bryson Harcourt. He knew it was better to show indifference than eagerness. Without undue familiarity he wished to show that he had a warm and loyal spot in his heart for the Harcourt Mill and the memory of Mr. Henry Harcourt. He wished to show that he was calling on Mr. Bryson Harcourt as one who still appreciated the many kindnesses the family had shown him, but he also wanted to have Mr. Bryson Harcourt realize that he was a successful individual in his own right.

Willis had reserved a room at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston. He took the ten-o'clock-in-the-morning train so that he would arrive at the hotel in time to spruce up before he went to see Mr. Harcourt at Beacon Street. He had applied saddle soap himself to the smaller of the two suitcases that he had purchased for his honeymoon. The unobtrusive briefcase he carried was more of a leather envelope for a few documents than a salesman's bag, but even so Willis decided to leave it at the hotel. He wore a dark overcoat, which he had purchased two weeks before, and a darkish herringbone suit—double-breasted—made for him by the same tailor patronized by Mr. Beakney. Little Paul had been five months on the way when Willis had decided to buy tailor-made clothes rather than readymade suits. It seemed extravagant at such a time, what with all the doctor's bills and hospital bills, but still, as Willis pointed out to Sylvia, a good tailor-made suit would outlast a ready-made one two to one. There was no need for him to worry about his appearance when he registered at the Ritz. Instead he thought of the time when he had reserved a table for Bess Harcourt and himself—it was amazing to think how many years ago. He also recollected he had promised Sylvia to call up Mr. and Mrs. Hodges in Cambridge, but he decided not to do so until he was finished with the Harcourt matter. Sylvia and everything in Orange seemed very far away.

“Front,” the hotel clerk called, and he handed Willis's room key to the bellboy. “The room overlooks the Public Garden, as you suggested, Mr. Wayde. Can you tell us how long you will be with us?”

“Tonight,” Willis said, and he smiled. “And tomorrow night, I hope. I always enjoy it here in Boston.”

When he was alone in his double room, Willis opened his suitcase immediately and hung up his extra suit and put his traveling photographs on the writing table. The photograph of his mother had been with him ever since the Harvard Business School. Beside it was a snapshot of Sylvia which he had taken himself at Chieftain Manor, and a baby picture of little Al. It was still only half past four o'clock by the time Willis had shaved and changed his shirt, and so he had time to sit for a while looking out at the Public Garden. There was no doubt that the days were getting longer. The waning light on the Public Garden reminded him of the light on the snow at the Harcourt place, and somehow the afternoon shadows and the sky itself had a quality that was different from New Jersey—a harsher, plainer quality.

Willis discovered that Beacon Street and the Bryson Harcourts' house only aroused distinct memories without awakening the keen emotion that they had once evoked. He remembered the night he had first walked up the steps with Bess, and he remembered the time when he had asked Bess to dinner and the theater—when Bess had stood him up for Edward Ewing. Thinking of the whole episode made Willis feel like a modern traveler regarding a classical ruin.

The maid who answered the door was a dimly familiar figure from the past. He was surprised that she remembered him much more clearly than he did her.

“I'll take your coat, Mr. Willis,” the maid said.

“Oh, thank you,” Willis said. “I hope Mr. Harcourt is expecting me.”

He glanced unobtrusively at his wrist watch as he spoke. It was two minutes after five-thirty.

“Oh yes,” the maid said, “Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt are expecting you upstairs, Mr. Willis.”

Although it had been nearly ten years since Willis had seen them, Mr. Bryson and Mrs. Harcourt still had the durable outdoor quality that he remembered. There were gray streaks in Mr. Bryson's dark hair, but he still had a young look. There had always been a warmth and kindness about Mr. Bryson and this quality had not gone. There was a moment, as Willis stood in the doorway of the upstairs parlor, when he realized that the balance between them all had changed. He knew before either of the Harcourts spoke that they were anxious to see him in the way people were when you had something that they wanted.

“Why, Willis,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “how well you look!”

“And you too, Mrs. Harcourt,” Willis said. She had the florid complexion he remembered, but her hair was growing becomingly white. “It is a genuine pleasure to see you again.”

“I told Bryson that I wanted to have a glimpse of you and then I'd go,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “How are your father and mother—well, I hope?”

“Oh, yes thanks,” Willis said. “They're on the West Coast, you know.”

“You're staying to dinner, aren't you?” Mrs. Harcourt asked.

“If it would not be an inconvenience, it would be a great pleasure, Mrs. Harcourt,” Willis said.

“That's splendid,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “I've asked Bess and Edward over. She's terribly anxious to see you.”

“Let's see,” Mr. Bryson Harcourt said, “maybe you don't know that Bess married Edward Ewing. I don't remember whether you were with us or not when they got engaged.”

“Oh yes, I was, as a matter of fact,” Willis said. “It will be a great pleasure to see them both again.”

“Why don't you take Willis across the hall, dear,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “for your little talk, but don't be too long because we all want to hear about him.”

“It is just like old times having you here, Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said, and he took Willis by the arm and led him past the stairs into the smaller sitting room that looked out on Beacon Street, and closed the sliding door. “Will you have a cigar, Willis?”

“No thank you, sir,” Willis said, and he laughed. “Mr. Harcourt taught me a lot of things, but he never could get me to like cigars.”

“Well, I'll have one if you don't mind,” Mr. Bryson said. “Father taught me the cigar habit earlier than he expected. I used to steal cigars out of the humidor in the big house when I was thirteen, and I don't think he ever knew. You're looking very fit, Willis.”

“I always make it a point,” Willis said, “to do a little bending and stretching and a few push-ups every day, but sometimes I think I thrive on hard work.”

“Let's see,” Mr. Bryson said. “What is the name of that place where you are working?”

A feeling of frustration, which Willis had forgotten, returned to him when Mr. Bryson asked that question.

“It is the Rahway Belting Company, sir,” Willis said, and he tried not to speak too slowly. “You may have heard of the Planeroid conveyors that we manufacture. They fill a different need from Hartex. Incidentally, the Walton people are using them here in Boston.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Harcourt said, “Rahway Belt.”

Willis settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

“Of course, it is a small company,” Willis said. “I happen to be the head of it at the moment.” He tried to speak as casually as possible, and he smiled. “That's why I came up to see you, sir.”

Willis's instinct was telling him that the amenities of the interview were over. Mr. Bryson nodded as he always did when he was trying to put facts together.

“Dear me,” he said, “I had no idea that you were so responsible there. I'm sorry, selfishly, because you see, we are looking for a new plant manager at Harcourt. I thought of you in that connection just as soon as I got your letter.”

Mr. Harcourt paused and Willis smiled sympathetically.

“Of course,” Mr. Harcourt said, “Father was under the impression that you would move ahead quickly, but I hadn't thought of you as being at the head of your own organization.”

Willis laughed in a deprecating way.

“It really isn't my own organization, sir,” Willis said. “I'm acting as president only for the moment. I'm sorry you have to look for a new plant manager, because I know they are rather hard to find.”

Mr. Bryson shook his head.

“It isn't finding them—it is keeping them,” he said. “You may remember my cousin Roger, don't you?”

“Oh yes,” Willis said, “I remember Mr. Roger Harcourt very well.”

Mr. Bryson puffed for a moment on his cigar.

“Of course,” he said, “I keep forgetting. Of course you know Roger Harcourt as well as I do. He had a disagreeable streak, but I frankly don't know what I'd do without him.”