“Miss Tilney?”
“Yes, Gretchen.” Gretchen Kay was always the first to ask a question after the theme. She was the serious girl of the class, nervous, dark and disliked by the others.
“Wasn’t it very bad of Posthumus to make a wager on Imogen’s virtue? And then to let her be tested?”
“Very bad.”
“And to want to kill her afterwards?”
“No, I don’t think that was as bad,” Fran answered, turning from the window. “After all, he thought her faithless.”
“Yes, but even if she had been, was that a reason for killing her?”
“Perhaps.” Fran shrugged lightly. “In those days. People were more violent then.”
“Would it have been all right for her to kill him if he’d been faithless?”
“Oh, no.” Fran was very sure about this. “That would have been altogether different. None of the comedy heroines have men who are worthy of them. Except perhaps Rosalind. Bassanio was after Portia’s money, and Bertram had to be trapped into loving Helena. And Posthumus—well, we’ve seen how he behaved. But I sometimes think the goodness of the heroines depends on their having to put up with such things. If the men were as good as the women, wouldn’t the women seem a bit dull?”
“Do you think that’s true in real life, Miss Tilney? Is it better for a girl to go with a boy who’s mercenary or faithless or unkind?”
The other girls laughed mockingly, but Fran did not join them. “It may be, Gretchen,” she said gravely. “It may indeed.”
She was troubled for the rest of the morning, as well as surprised, by her own ready acceptance of what had seemed at first the idlest of speculations. She was afraid that she had been disloyal to Harry. While none of the girls in her class knew that she was engaged, they would find out in two weeks’ time when it was announced. And then would they speculate that he was a Posthumus or a Bertram or a Bassanio? It made matters worse that Harry in the three months following the night of the office dinner had been the gentlest, the most considerate of lovers. Lovers, she noted mentally, as if one of the girls might read her thoughts, in the Shakespearean sense. Why then did she want to represent him as someone hard or callous? Was it part of his appeal that he had seemed so on the night of their first meeting? Was she so debased that she wanted a man who, as Gretchen might have put it, would “kick her around”? Or would she all her life be a schoolgirl who wanted to play Imogen, or rather who wanted to play Ellen Terry playing Imogen?
Her mood darkened as the day progressed, and by the time school was out, she was deeply depressed. She had dreaded to face the real origin of her trouble, but at home in her room, looking at her own startled eyes in the mirror, she made herself do so. Had not Harry, in a single quarter of a year, become rather too much what her father had set out to make him? He worked in “green goods” now, along with Jake Platt and Bart French and the other “disciples,” and he seemed to be thoroughly content. Certainly, her father did not share her misgivings—if “misgivings” was not too strong a word. He was even demonstrative in his pleasure at how Harry had “taken hold” and hinted to Fran that he might still—despite the unhappy scene with Todd—have a future in the firm. Was it all too early? Did she respect less the more conservative Harry, in darker suits with darker ties, in white shirts only now, who tried to get on with Bart and laughed so roundly at her father’s jokes? How contemptible of her!
That evening her father telephoned to say he was bringing Bart and Harry and Jake Platt home for supper and that they were going to work in the library afterwards. It was a primary rule in the household that he could always do this. Ada would be ready, at an hour’s notice, to supply hot soup and beans and cold cuts, salad and beer to any number of young men from the office. It was the only way, at times, that she could get her husband home. She always invited the wives, too, if they could leave their children, and the ladies would play cards or knit and chat during the long evening.
They had a buffet supper that night, and Fran sat in a corner of the dining room with her brother-in-law, Bart, watching Harry, who was talking to her sister across the room. She could see that he was trying to make a good impression by the rather dainty way that he held his fork in scooping up the last of his beans. She despised herself for noticing this. After all, he didn’t really hold his fork any more daintily than the others. It was simply that he held it more daintily than he had used to. Daintily! The very word was a dye strong enough to discolor the image of any man. She had to watch herself.
“Harry fits right into the groove now, doesn’t he?”
There was no mistaking the antagonism in Bart’s tone, and Fran turned to him in surprise. Bart was so rarely antagonistic. “What groove?”
“That of the smooth young associate of Tower, Tilney.”
“The Bart French?” she asked crisply.
“If you will.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t seem so very long ago that he was telling off partners at firm dinners and wearing silver ties with green bubbles on them.”
Fran found that she was trembling all over and knew that it was less because Bart had remembered that tie than because she remembered it herself. “You don’t like him, do you?” she asked softly.
“No,” he answered with a strained little smile that did not in the least disguise his awareness that they were having a very important discussion. “And I guess it’s about the last chance I’ll have to tell you so. I should have done it earlier, but you’ve moved so fast.”
“That’s all right, Bart. Tell me why you don’t like Harry.”
“I hate people who say somebody’s not their type. Okay, I hate myself. Harry’s not my type. Or yours either.”
“I guess I’m the best judge of that.”
He shook his head. “The worst. A girl in love is the very worst. But anyone in Tower, Tilney can tell you about Harry. He’s the guy who was the great rebel until he found it was worth his while to make sheep’s eyes at the senior partner’s daughter.”
Fran closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Bart,” she half whispered. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to say that.”
“It wasn’t. And the ridiculous thing is I’m not even sure that I want to influence you.” Bart’s long face was strangely alive with his perplexity. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“I think I ought. And I assure you that it will not influence me.” She even managed to smile now at her brother-in-law. “But go and talk to someone else for a bit, Bart. One may appreciate candor, but it’s impossible not to resent the candid. For a day or so, at least. Don’t worry. It won’t last forever.”
Fran went to her room after supper, on the excuse of correcting school papers, and sat alone in the dark to hug her misery. What an absurdly fragile thing happiness was! When she thought of how she had felt only that morning! Yet as small a thing as the memory of an ugly tie—no, more than that, a vulgar tie—was enough to blow away all the shining cobwebs of her good humor and leave her alone in as drab a mental chamber as was ever occupied by Bart French. It might have been a judgment for the hubris of likening herself to Imogen and Helena. It was not easy to imagine them being distressed by a lover’s way of holding a fork or by a silly tie. They were not petty snobs. Middle-class snobs. There was at least the expiation of knowing that she could make up for a part of her meanness by being a good wife to Harry. But happiness, where was happiness?
When she answered the knock at her door and saw Harry, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, darling, how wonderful! Are you through already?”
“The boss broke up school early tonight. Come on, I’m taking you out for a drink.”
At the Third Avenue bar where they had gone on their first evening together he stared a moment into his beer and then looked up at her with an embarrassed smile. “I have something to tell you. Something about myself. Unless your father’s already told you.”
“Daddy knows? It can’t be so bad, then.”
She listened in fasci
nated silence as he told her, in brief, bleak sentences, without embellishment or apology, the story of his affair with Doris Marsh. At first she found herself thinking of Imogen again and the hero whose defects threw into greater relief the virtues of the heroine. Then she found herself thinking that Bart French could never have done such a thing. That at least he would have paid the doctor’s full bill. And all the while, from a wonderful shivering within, she knew that the full glow of her morning ecstasy had been restored.
“Has she really married Mr. Ozite?” she asked when he had finished.
“Oh, yes. Weeks ago.”
“Perhaps you should give her the other five hundred as a wedding present.”
He saw in her eyes that his cause was undamaged, perhaps even curiously enhanced, and he laughed. “Is that all you have to say? I sometimes think women have no morals.”
“Not where other women are concerned, anyway.” She cleared her throat with a little cough. “And now I have something to tell you. Something much worse.” When she saw the hard, bright instant gleam of alarm in his eyes, she added quickly: “Oh, not what you’re thinking. It’s not about another man. It’s about you. I was criticizing you in my mind tonight. For seeming too much like Bart and Jake.”
He looked confused. “But how?”
“By being too much the smooth young Tower, Tilney associate.”
“You mean a toady?”
“Oh, no. It was just that you seemed less like Harry Reilley.”
“And now I’m old Harry again? Because I’m the hero of a dirty story?”
She laughed at the absurdity of it. “I guess so. That’s the kind of illogical thing a woman is.”
But Harry was not in the least amused. He was suddenly very angry, and two bright red spots appeared just under his cheekbones. “It gave you a thrill that I wasn’t a gentleman, is that it? You only cared about the mick? You don’t want me in the same dancing class with Bart French—I look too pathetic in those silk tights and black pumps? Is that it?”
“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, appalled.
“Do you think I give a God-damn about those precious little disciples of your father? Do you think I give a God-damn about his sacred firm? Do you know that I was going to resign the day he asked me for dinner? Every case I’ve worked on since then, every shirt and tie I’ve bought, every drink I’ve passed up, every snotty partner I haven’t told off, has been because of you. And what a sweet ass that makes me! When all you wanted was a tough mick to give you a black eye!”
In the suffocation of her shame Fran felt a sudden terror that he would leave the bar and walk out of her life before she had found her voice. “Oh, my darling,” she grasped, “forgive me!”
His anger faded to exasperation as he looked into her desperately pleading eyes. “Well, you needn’t make a soap opera of it.”
“I love you, darling!” She reached across the table to seize his hand. “Does anything else matter?”
“For Pete’s sake, Fran!”
“No, listen to me, Harry. Please. It’s only fair to give me a chance to explain. You see, I’ve always had a fetish about the office. Because it was Daddy’s world, that shining man’s world that I could never get into. And then when you came along, and without even caring about it, without in the least admiring it, made it yours, I began to wonder if it could have been so great a world, after all. And because that idea was painful to me, I had to accuse you of conquering it unfairly!”
“I haven’t conquered it yet. By a long shot.”
“But you will! I know you will. And all the while I should have been telling myself that it’s not because Daddy’s world was weak but because you were strong!”
“Tower, Tilney doesn’t mean that much to me,” he grumbled, and she saw that she had said enough. More than enough.
“Of course it doesn’t, darling! Why should it? And in the future it’s only going to mean to me what it means to you. Is that a bargain?”
When she saw him smile at last, if reluctantly, she could only pray that the crisis had been averted and swear an inward vow that she would never play Imogen again.
The Power of Appointment
SYLVESTER BROOKS had reached the age of seventy without making the professional blunder, the dread of which had darkened his life. The apprehension had started in law school where he had learned to identify himself with those bungling practitioners whom his professors, in the meanness of their detachment, were never tired of excoriating: “Of course, this case wouldn’t have come up if the testator had hired someone better than a monkey to draw his will,” or: “This company wouldn’t have lost its charter if it had spent a few more bucks on its brand of counsel.” Young Brooks, laughing with the others—and he always laughed with the others—nonetheless immediately saw himself as that monkey or as the author of that defective bylaw. Yet he managed through law school and, indeed, for the first twenty-five years of his professional life, both as an associate and later as a partner of his magnificent older cousin Reginald Tower, to keep his anxiety within reasonable bounds. Hidden away from a large office in his small, closed garden of accountings—accountings of trustees, of guardians, of executors, accountings of anybody accounting for anything—he was immune from the terrible decisions of the courtroom or the corporate board meeting. It was not until he was fifty and collided with a litigious widow who wanted to surcharge the Standard Trust Company for half a million dollars that he lost his nerve and persuaded the client to a bad settlement. It was young Waldron Webb, his assistant, who alerted the senior partner, with the result that the case was promptly taken out of Brooks’ hands, the settlement quashed and the widow roundly defeated. The dreaded blunder had not been made; it had been averted. But Sylvester Brooks, who was never to recover his lost nerve, suffered a breakdown which kept him out of the office for a year.
When he returned, he was still in no condition to be in charge even of accountings, and he would have been lost but for the kindness and tact of his cousin. Tower, a huge, grumbling, waspish, exhibitionistic lawyer, who concealed a genius under the splashing flow of his platitudes, had a sense of responsibility, amounting almost to an obsession, for his family. Brooks was his mother’s nephew, and Brooks had to be looked out for. He conceived the plan of justifying Brooks to the other partners in the role of a business getter, or at least of a business holder, and he made him the firm’s personal representative, placing him on charitable boards and committees of lawyers’ associations, sending him to legal banquets and bar conferences and delegating to him the entertainment of clients. And Brooks, responding with the deepest gratitude, adopted as best he could, as the years in this new niche sped comfortably by, the appearance of what his cousin presented him as being, that of the perfectly charming and worldly-wise old gentleman. His figure was slim and dapper; his soft thick hair cut into his high forehead in a fine grey triangle, and his long, brown intelligent handsome face bore spots but no wrinkles. What was best of all was that his friendly twinkling sky-blue eyes and his fine aquiline nose gave the impression of a domesticated eagle who remembered the days of his soaring above pine forests and rocky crags. When Brooks told the young clerks stories of old lawsuits and distant triumphs, in his pleasant, crackling, beautifully modulated voice, with a gesture here and there that seemed the replica of one made in oral agruments before Holmes or Cardozo, they believed him. They believed him implicitly until they were disillusioned—which, alas, was only too soon the case—by their seniors of a few months.
“Mr. Brooks? A splendid old fraud. Something out of Dickens. The partners put up with him because of the boss. When old Tower kicks the bucket, they’ll send Brooks to the glue factory.”
And, indeed, when the surrogate died, and the scramble for his clients began, poor Brooks could not even get his nose in the pot. The Standard Trust Company, prize of the collection, went, of course, to Tower’s successor, Clitus Tilney, and the corporations to the other corporation partners. Even the individual clients passed Brooks by
. Old Miss Johanna Shepard, with all her city real estate, went to Waldron Webb, and the Baxter family to Morris Madison. But the bitterest blow of all was when Mildred Tower, the widow, told the new senior partner that she would prefer to have her husband’s estate handled by his nephew than by his cousin. And who was this nephew but the bungling Rutherford whose gaffes in will drafting had been more than once covered up by Brooks before they could be spotted by the stern avuncular eye? Where was there even a bush in this jackal-infested desert?
Clitus Tilney called Brooks in for a conference. He was as kind as he could be, as kind as old Tower himself, but he was not a relation. Had Brooks thought of retiring? He, Tilney, personally wouldn’t have believed it had he not checked the records, but facts were facts, and Brooks was sixty-nine, four years over the mandatory retirement age in all the big banks. A pension of sorts could be arranged, perhaps half of Brooks’ current drawing account. What about it?
“Oh, it’s not the money, Clitus,” Brooks said grandly, knowing full well that Tilney was aware that he could barely get by on his present percentage which was smaller than the most junior partner’s. “With taxes what they are, a little more or less income won’t make all that difference. But what happens to an old war horse when he’s turned out to pasture? Othello’s occupation and all that? What would I do?”
It was indeed a question. Brooks had no life outside the firm, except for Mrs. Brooks and their polio-crippled daughter, Angelina, and the function of those two pale-browed, serene and uncommunicative women, besides keeping up the Gothic shingle house in Staten Island, was to provide, in long evenings of needlepoint, the appearance of an audience for his saga of the day’s battles. The firm was his club, his fishing lodge, his cottage on the seashore; it was the source both of his gossip and of his intellectual satisfaction, the fountain of his friends, his brothers and now of his sons.
“I thought perhaps that in the evening of life, as they put it,” Tilney pursued gently, “you might like to be free of the cares and troubles of practice.”
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