Sincerely, Willis Wayde (45 page)

Willis felt his cheeks reddening.

“And Uriah Heep,” Willis said, and he laughed louder than was necessary. “Don't forget Uriah Heep.”

Suddenly Bess's lips lost their malicious smile.

“That isn't accurate now,” she said. “You don't look humble any more.”

“Uriah Heep stopped being humble too,” Willis said, and he laughed again—“that is, if I remember Dickens.”

“Oh, Willis,” Bess said, “let's stop. I'm really dreadfully glad to see you.” Then she must have remembered that Willis had not yet said a word to Edward Ewing. Edward was standing waiting, wearing a dinner coat, which made Willis wish that he had brought his own tuxedo.

“Willis,” Bess said, “you remember Edward, don't you?”

It seemed to Willis that they shook hands in very much the same way they had across the tennis net at the Harcourt place, but Willis was also aware of certain shades of difference. He felt no wishful envy of Edward Ewing now. He felt not only a mental but a physical superiority, because Edward had accumulated a corpulence about his face and waistline, clearly indicating that he did not put saccharine in his coffee, sprinkle wheat germ in his orange juice, or do bending-and-stretching exercises and push-ups in the morning. His brownish eyes had a dull, contented look, giving an impression, which Willis was beginning to recognize, of someone who had never moved forward, in a career or business sense.

“I certainly do remember,” Willis said.

“I'm awfully glad to see you again, Willis,” Edward said. “How's everything going?”

“Fine,” Willis said. “Fine. I'm living in Orange—married and have two children—and you, Edward?”

“We have four,” Edward said. “That is, the last time I counted up. Four's right, isn't it, Bess?”

“Right,” Bess said. “And no more in sight on the immediate horizon. But then, Edward and I had a head start over you and—oh, dear, I have forgotten your wife's name, Willis.”

Willis laughed heartily and hoped that he did not sound nervous.

“Her name is Sylvia,” he said. “You can remember it by the quotation Who is Sylvia? What is she?'—from Shakespeare, if I'm not mistaken.”

“My God!” Bess said. “Since when did you take up Shakespeare?”

“I wouldn't say I have taken him up,” Willis said, “but I like to relax with a book now and then when little Al isn't pulling potted plants off the window sill on top of himself.”

“Little Al sounds very active.” It was Mr. Bryson Harcourt interrupting.

“Indeed he is,” Willis said, “considering his age.”

“Well, boys will be boys,” Mr. Bryson said. “See here, hasn't anyone given you a drink?”

“Edward,” Bess said, and Willis remembered her executive tone of voice, “you're keeping bar for Father, aren't you?”

“Sorry, dear,” Edward said. “My mind was on little Al and the flower pots. Dabney used to do it. You remember, in the conservatory.”

“Never mind Dabney, Edward,” Bess said. “Go and please get Willis his cocktail. What else do you relax with besides Shakespeare, Willis?”

“I always try to relax with something worthwhile,” Willis answered.

“What do you consider better?” Bess asked. “A blonde or a brunette?”

Willis laughed heartily.

“Gentlemen prefer blondes,” he said.

Of course Willis meant it only in a kidding way, but still it was not such a bad remark as a comeback after the one Bess had handed him, and it seemed to please Bess very much.

“Do you still like blondes?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, but he did not like Bess Ewing in that way any longer, and he was sure that pique or resentment did not enter into his feeling.

“What was it we were talking about before Father interrupted us?” Bess asked. “Oh, I remember. About good books. What do you read besides Shakespeare?”

“Well, I don't get a chance to tackle anything much except business reading,” Willis said, “but I am making my way through Dr. Eliot's—I mean President Eliot's—Five-Foot Shelf. I'm almost through volume ten right now.”

“Oh, dear,” Bess said, “not the Five-Foot Shelf of Books.” And then she began to laugh.

Willis was not annoyed because he was already training himself to rise above annoyance, but before he could answer, Bess had stopped laughing.

“I was only laughing at one side of you,” she said. “You used to be so persistent that you frightened me sometimes, and you still do, Willis.”

“Oh, come, Bess, I am a very mediocre person, and you know it,” he answered, and then Mr. Bryson interrupted them again.

“I don't know what you two are talking about,” he said, “but it's time to go down to dinner, and before we go—” and he spoke in a louder tone—“as long as we are all in the family here, I have a word to say that may interest us all. Willis and I have been having a very interesting and worthwhile talk. It may very well be that we will have Willis with us again, at least for part of his time, at the mill.” Mr. Harcourt raised his glass. “Here's hoping so, Willis, and you'd better have another before we go downstairs.”

“Oh, no thank you, sir,” Willis said. It was not what he would have called a two-drink night, and he needed to watch everything. He was surprised that Bess looked as though she had just received an answer to an outlandish wish.

“Oh, Willis,” she said, “I'm so glad.”

Willis had been in the Bryson Harcourts' Boston dining room on several occasions years ago, but he saw it with a new eye while he told Mrs. Harcourt about Sylvia and the children. It looked more worn than he remembered, but he had to admit that the added dinginess only indicated that the Harcourts were not obliged to care how things looked. He and Sylvia, he was thinking, would have been criticized, but not the Harcourts, and, besides, the room was durably handsome. The pedestal table, without an extra leaf since it was only set for five, was late-eighteenth or early-nineteenth century. The sideboard was of the same period as the table, but rather heavy for Willis's taste. The plates were simple blue Canton—traditional New England, of course—but they really made quite a show since, what with the Japanese invasion of China and then the European war, no Canton china had been available for years. The heavy pretentious flat silver dated from the middle eighties but the candlesticks and a very handsome
épergne
, he believed, were Georgian. There was a long gilt-framed mirror behind the sideboard, and on the wall opposite Willis was a portrait which he recognized at once, from the neck-constricting costume of the eighteen-twenties, as that of Mr. William Harcourt. It must have been a copy, like the one in the president's office at the mill, because they surely would not have removed the original from the big house.

“What a very beautiful
épergne
, Mrs. Harcourt,” Willis said.

Sylvia had said that he was never good with French words, but he was sure that he had pronounced it correctly.

“Why, Willis,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “I didn't know you were interested in old silver.”

There was wine, which must have been a claret—red wine with red meat. Willis took a sip of it before he answered and made a mental note that he must read up on wines.

“Well, frankly,” Willis said, “it was Mr. Henry Harcourt who obliged me to take an interest in antiques. You see, one summer he had me make an inventory of all the antique furniture in the office at the mill.” Willis smiled and shook his head as though he faced a rather hopeless situation. “Now antiques have become a hobby with me, and a recreation which Sylvia and I can share. It's sort of fun to hop in the car on Saturdays and go around to antique shops. And I've found that antiquing is a hobby that pays in other ways.”

He paused and glanced around the table, and finally he encountered the stern gaze of the portrait on the opposite wall, and felt pleased, as he had often felt previously, that he had never been obliged to work for Mr. William Harcourt. Bess, who was sitting on his right, had stopped conversing with her father.

“How do you mean, antiquing pays in other ways?” she asked.

Willis had not meant to deliver a public dissertation, and as usual Bess had caught him off guard.

“Why,” Willis said, “I only meant it never hurts to have an interest that you can talk about intelligently. Frankly, it interests me that the heads of a great many large businesses seem to collect antiques. They're apt to appreciate someone who knows about them.”

“Is that why you mentioned the
épergne
?” Bess asked.

Willis felt his face redden. He wished that he could outgrow this telltale habit.

“No,” he said, “it was only that I happened to like it. Isn't it here to be admired?”

“Oh,” Bess said, “well, come around and see some of my
épergnes
sometime.”

It was a little hard to interpret this remark, but everyone began to laugh.

“I certainly will,” Willis said, laughing with the rest, “now you ask me.”

Then Willis had an unexpected shock. Bess's knee was touching his beneath the table. The dessert was floating island, not a favorite of his. He could not very well draw his knee away, considering the status of the Harcourt-Rahway deal.

“Don't you like your floating island?” Bess said.

“Why, yes,” Willis said, “very much, Bess.”

“It always makes me feel young and childish,” Bess said.

“It always makes me think of home and the children,” Willis answered.

It might have been difficult to have made Sylvia understand that he could not very well withdraw his knee, considering the Harcourt-Rahway situation.

“Willis,” Mr. Bryson said, “what do you think of this ‘phony war' in Europe? Do you think they are waiting until spring?”

Frankly Willis was not able to react to war news in the emotional way that Sylvia did. He did not know much about Hitler or Nazism, and he was bored by arguments on the subject.

“Well,” he said, “of course I don't know anything except what I read in the papers and hear over the air, but I don't see how they can all sit around doing nothing indefinitely. Someone must be getting ready to do something.”

“That same thought has been running through my own mind,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I can't help wondering what that something's going to be.”

It was difficult to consider the world situation with Bess's knee pressed against his. Government interference in business was enough, without having to think about war.

“Hitler hasn't got the resources,” Edward said. “His whole machine is stopped and the French will put on an offensive this spring. It will all be over before we get a chance to get into it.”

At first Willis thought that Edward Ewing was joking, when he hinted at a chance of getting into it, but Willis was learning that war and politics got people unnecessarily stirred up, and so he tried to speak as lightly as possible.

“As far as I can see,” Willis said—“and I base my knowledge on market letters, especially the Kiplinger Letter from Washington—”

“What on earth is the Kiplinger Letter?” Bess asked.

Willis felt somewhat constrained explaining Kiplinger, because he suspected that she knew all about it, although she was looking at him brightly.

“Well, the Kiplinger Letter,” Willis said, “is edited in Washington by a man named Mr. Kiplinger.”

“You said all that the first time,” Bess said. “When you mentioned the Kiplinger Washington Letter, of course I knew that it was written by a man in Washington by the name of Mr. Kiplinger.”

“Well, I suppose you're right,” Willis said, and he joined in the laugh at his expense. “But this Mr. Kiplinger does get around a good deal, and he has important contacts that he naturally can't quote.”

“I should like to see one of those letters,” Bess said. “Make a note of it, will you, Willis?”

“Indeed I will, Bess,” Willis said, and he took out his pocket notebook and his pencil.

“Oh, Willis,” Bess said. “I only meant a mental note.”

Willis wanted to answer Bess sharply, but he couldn't, what with the Harcourt and Rahway deal. He was relieved when Mrs. Harcourt pushed back her chair.

“Come on, Bess,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “You and I can talk about Dabney's school while the men talk about war and business.”

“If it is war, Edward will like it,” Bess said. “He won't rest until we can get into the war.”

There was a moment's comfortable silence in the dining room when Mrs. Harcourt and Bess left them. Willis's mind had moved momentarily into the future. He was thinking of a dining room that he and Sylvia might have some day, with a table and a dozen very good Chippendale chairs from Mallet's of Bath—and then his thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Bryson Harcourt's voice.

“Are you sure you don't want a cigar, Willis?”

“No thank you, sir,” Willis said, “but if I might I would like a cigarette.”

“By the way,” Mr. Harcourt said, “I should have asked you if you wanted to wash up before dinner. There is a lavatory in the closet below the front stairs, in case you need it, Willis.”

“Thank you, sir,” Willis said, “but I really have no need of it.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Bryson said, “your constitution's stronger than mine. If you will excuse me, I shall visit it myself, and then I think I'll call up Roger Harcourt so we can be sure to meet with him in the morning.”

“Brandy, Willis?” Edward asked.

“Just a little, thank you,” Willis said. “Just a very small touch.”

When he tasted it, he knew it was some of Mr. Henry Harcourt's brandy, and he thought of Mr. Percy Nagel in Mr. Harcourt's private study long ago.

“I don't know what it was that you were talking to my father-in-law about,” Edward said, “but if it involves your coming back to the mill, I hope it works. I gather things are rather confused up there. I don't know anything because I am in a law office, but Bess is always fussing about the mill—not that we depend on it much.”