Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  With love,

  Bess

  Although he made up his mind not to, of course he saw her that Saturday, but if you were hurt once, you were instinctively careful not to be hurt that way again.

  X

  Willis never could have explained to anyone else exactly what it had meant to him when Mr. Harcourt had invited him to attend the stockholders’ luncheon at the big house in June, 1929.

  “Oh, by the way, Willis,” he had said, “I have been meaning to give you a little present. Here are five shares of common stock in the Harcourt Mill made out in your name. Don’t thank me too much for them. Their par value is negligible.”

  It was the gesture that counted, and Willis still had that original certificate, framed and hanging on the wall of his study. It was more important to him than his diplomas and other mementos, and when he looked at it he could always remember Mr. Harcourt.

  “Besides,” Mr. Harcourt said, “it is a necessary gesture, because I want you to attend the stockholders’ meeting and to be at the house for the customary luncheon. It’s time you met some of the more remote members of the family.”

  It had been a long time since Willis and Bess Harcourt had looked down from the second floor upon the stockholders of the Harcourt Mill. Things were subtly different now, because Willis had a feeling of being part of the house itself. If the sensation was slightly feudal, it still was real. It seemed to him that day that he was almost like Bill Harcourt or something that Bill Harcourt should have been. He wondered sometimes why Bill Harcourt had not been acutely jealous of him, but it was not in Bill’s nature to be jealous, and perhaps he had always thought of Willis as relieving him of responsibilities.

  In fact Bill Harcourt had expressed some of these thoughts himself on the afternoon of the luncheon. He was often surprisingly frank in the things he said. Bill was standing on the flagstone porch by the front door smoking a cigarette.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he said. “It takes a great weight off my mind.”

  “What sort of weight?” Willis asked.

  “I mean I won’t have to make an ass of myself,” Bill said, “trying to answer a lot of questions. You can do all the talking for me. I always hate these parties. Thank God there’s someone bright around the house.”

  Willis laughed. It was always easy to laugh at Bill and still feel loyal to him, and the truth was that Bill had never cared about the Harcourt Mill and knew that he was not obliged to care, except in a superficial manner.

  “All right, Bill,” he said, “but you’re not as dumb as all that, you know.”

  “I know exactly how dumb I am,” Bill said. “I wish I didn’t have to keep pretending I’m something that I’m not.”

  “That’s a fine way to talk,” Willis said, “when you’ll be the boss here some day.”

  “Hell,” Bill told him, “I don’t want to be the boss of anything.”

  Willis laughed again. It was true that the place belonged partly to Bill, but Willis was part of it too. He was more aware than he ever had been of his position when he and Bill walked into the front hall. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Harcourt were already there, waiting to receive the guests.

  “Hello, boys,” Mr. Harcourt said, just as though Willis were a member of the family. “There’s punch in the living room, and Bill, I’d like you to see that Willis meets everyone.”

  Physically Mr. Harcourt had changed very little. He had always looked small and slightly frail and old, but not too old. He always had a bright alertness. He was always carefully dressed. Though his hair may have grown grayer and his motions a trifle slower, he looked about the same to Willis as when Willis had seen him first. He had reached a static, timeless period like the house in which he lived, and the same was true with Mrs. Henry Harcourt. Her hands still looked as delicate as they had over the tea tray on that winter afternoon in the library.

  “Willis, dear,” she said, “I want to talk to you for a minute after the guests have left. You and I are the only outsiders here—not that we’re really outsiders.”

  “Harriet means that she’s thinking of you as my keeper, Willis,” Mr. Harcourt said. “She’s going to talk to you about my general health and ask that I don’t overdo.”

  “Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said, “I wish you’d remember what Dr. Blair said in Boston.”

  “Harriet, dear,” Mr. Harcourt said, “I remember very well what Dr. Blair said. Anyway, I’m not dead yet, Harriet, though I dare say several people here would like me to be.”

  “Now, Henry,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “Who would like to see you dead?”

  “Probably my nephew Roger,” Mr. Harcourt said. “There’s always a lot of solid hatred in a well-regulated family, Harriet. Willis, I want you to be especially pleasant to Roger if he should ask you about anything. Now, Bill, you and Willis go into the living room and have some punch. It’s very weak.”

  In the long dark hall leading to the living room Bill grasped Willis by the arm so hard that Willis remembered he was startled.

  “What’s that about Dr. Blair seeing Grandfather?” he asked.

  Willis could see that he was genuinely concerned and that something Bill had always counted on was threatened, and Bill had always hated change. Willis could only answer that it was the first time that he had ever heard of any doctor.

  “Blair’s a heart specialist,” Bill said. “I don’t believe anyone’s told Father.”

  Willis knew that he was representing Mr. Harcourt in a way. He knew that it would be wrong for the news to get around suddenly and he told Bill exactly that.

  Then they were in the living room among the people around the punch bowl, and Willis was speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Bryson Harcourt. Mrs. Harcourt said it was wonderful that Willis was doing so well. She had heard so much about Willis lately.

  “Willis is all right,” Mr. Bryson Harcourt said, “and Willis has always been all right. How do you think Father’s looking, Willis?”

  Obviously Mr. Bryson Harcourt had heard something.

  “I think he’s looking fine, sir,” Willis said.

  “He is,” Mr. Harcourt answered. “Just what I was thinking, and we’ve had a fine year but we’ve got to keep Father from overdoing. I know you’ll help me out on this, Willis.”

  Then Willis shook hands very formally with Bess Harcourt and Bess laughed.

  “It’s funny to see you here,” Bess said. “You might almost be Bill.”

  “Oh no,” Willis answered. “I’m just the handyman.”

  “Then don’t look so superior,” she said. “This isn’t such a great occasion. Don’t look so highly honored.”

  “I didn’t know I looked that way,” he told her, “but maybe it’s a greater occasion for me than it is for you.”

  “Don’t sound humble like Uriah Heep,” she said. “Maybe you are Uriah Heep.”

  “Not that I know of,” Willis answered.

  Bess looked straight at him, and her greenish-blue eyes were wide.

  “You’re always part way humble, and I hate that side of you,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s because I have to get along with all of you,” he told her, and he felt his face flush. “Maybe I’m just a poor boy trying to get on.”

  Bess shook her head impatiently.

  “Well, don’t have it on your mind so much. Do you know Grandfather says I ought to have been Bill?”

  “Well,” Willis said, “you’re not.”

  “No,” she said, “I’m not. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we have some brains around.”

  Then Bill Harcourt interrupted them.

  “Who says I haven’t any brains?” he asked.

  “I did, stupid,” Bess said.

  “All right,” Bill said, “but never mind it now. Cousin Roger wants to meet Willis. I’m sure I don’t know why. He just expressed the desire.”

  “You never know about anything,” Bess said. “You never try to know.”

  “What’s the matter?” Bill asked. “What a
re you mad about now?”

  “I’m mad at you,” Bess said, “and when I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at Willis.”

  Bill began to laugh.

  “Now, Bess,” he said, “don’t keep trying to run the mill.”

  Willis may have been too humble and too anxious to please in those days, but it was an insult to be compared with Uriah Heep, and Bess Harcourt’s words had been like an unexpected dash of water on his face that reddened it and challenged his self-control. His nerves were still on edge when he followed Bill across the worn carpet of the living room to where Mr. Roger Harcourt was standing a pace or two away from old Mrs. Blood and Eldridge Harcourt and the Haywards.

  It was the first time that Willis had ever spoken to Mr. Roger Harcourt, although he had seen him several times. Roger Harcourt was utterly unlike his first cousin, Mr. Bryson, with none of Mr. Bryson’s outdoor look and none of Mr. Bryson’s guilelessness. He was ponderous and fat. His face was a soft pinkish white, and it had a petulantly childish expression.

  “So this is Uncle Henry’s factotum, is it?” Mr. Roger Harcourt said, in a voice that was incongruously thin for his weight. His cheeks creased into difficult dimples as he smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Bryson and everyone. You don’t mind if I call you Willis, do you, since you seem such a part of the family around here?”

  “No, sir,” Willis said, “of course not.”

  “I’m just a family stockholder,” Roger Harcourt said, “but I like to think I’m an interested one. Uncle Henry put you through Business School, didn’t he?”

  “He lent me the money,” Willis said, “but it’s been paid back.”

  “I’m sure Uncle Henry didn’t expect it,” Roger Harcourt said, and he leaned back on his heels, but his glance never moved from Willis’s face. “Uncle Henry really isn’t in need of funds, you know.”

  Willis looked straight back at him and smiled.

  “No, sir,” he said, “I don’t suppose he is.”

  “I’ve a great admiration for Uncle Henry,” Roger Harcourt said, “even if he has occasional whims that I don’t agree with. You do seem rather young.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis answered, “I guess I’m pretty young.”

  “But that will cure itself in time,” Roger Harcourt said. “Time has a way of fixing everything.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis said. “Maybe I’m too young to know.”

  “I don’t like to make quick judgments,” Roger Harcourt said. “I’ve always been predisposed against boy wonders, but I’ve a feeling that you and I might get on quite well together, given time.”

  “I’m glad if you think so, sir,” Willis told him.

  “Some day before too long,” Roger Harcourt said, “I want to devote a day to the mill. I’d like to have you take me around, if Uncle Henry can spare you.”

  “I’d be very glad to,” Willis answered.

  “This firm of experts we’ve been hearing about in the meeting—” Roger Harcourt removed his right hand from his trousers pocket and rubbed the back of his neck softly—“these smart New Yorkers—Beakney and Graham—who’ve been pulling and hauling things around. Do you think they’re any good?”

  “Mr. Harcourt thinks they are,” Willis said.

  “Now let me ask you another question.” Roger Harcourt put his hand back in his pocket. “Did you ever hear of a firm called Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting?”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis said, “I’ve heard of them.”

  “You know they’re a very large company, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know that, sir,” Willis said.

  Of course Willis had to know about competitors. Roger Harcourt was gazing at him fixedly, as though he were trying to read some secret.

  “There’s a rumor”—Roger lowered his voice—“there’s a rumor that they’re prepared to buy us out. Have you heard it?”

  It was the second surprising thing that Willis had heard that day. “No, sir,” he said. “I haven’t heard a word of it.”

  Roger Harcourt laughed, but he looked as though he had learned something.

  “Uncle Henry said he hadn’t heard either,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask you one more question?”

  “No, of course not,” Willis said.

  “I know you see Mr. Harcourt every day. How would you say he’s feeling? I mean his general health?”

  “I would say he’s feeling fine,” Willis said. He hoped he did not speak too quickly, but he was not sure. He did not like Roger Harcourt, but he felt a reluctant respect for him.

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Roger Harcourt said. “I’d hate to have anything happen to Uncle Henry, but time will march on.”

  Roger Harcourt smiled faintly, nodded, and moved away slowly across the living room. It had been what you might call an exchange of information, guarded and watchful. If Mr. Roger Harcourt had learned anything, Willis had learned something too, and he only wished he knew whether or not Roger Harcourt had intended him to learn it, but there was no time to think this over at the moment, because Mr. Decker was speaking to him. Willis had seen Mr. Decker often at the mill lately, and Mr. Decker had been kind to him ever since he was at high school.

  “Well, well, Willis,” Mr. Decker said, “so you’re a stockholder now, aren’t you?”

  “Five shares,” Willis said, “but I’m here for lunch.”

  Mr. Decker was wearing his old pepper-and-salt suit. Sometimes Willis thought that Mr. Decker tried deliberately to look like a small-town country lawyer.

  “I saw Roger putting you on the stand,” Mr. Decker said. “Well, well, Roger does that to everyone. Have you seen Steve lately?”

  “No, sir,” Willis said, “not lately.”

  “Steve says he sees you around Cambridge sometimes. You both know some people named Hodges. He’s a geology professor, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis said.

  “And there’s a girl named Sylvia, isn’t there? It’s funny to think of you and Steve running after the same girl.”

  “I’m not running after her,” Willis said.

  “Well,” Mr. Decker said, “maybe she’s just running after Steve. Now it looks as though lunch is ready. Mr. Harcourt will make a speech, I guess. I always like his speeches.”

  The family and the stockholders made a strange group in the dining room. There was a veneer of good-fellowship and good manners, but there were murmurings beneath it, and Willis was sensitive enough to feel the small tensions. He and Bill and Bess were the only young people there and they sat far down the table, but he could see Mr. Harcourt talking easily while his glance moved swiftly from face to face, and he knew Mr. Harcourt was enjoying himself. He was a captain guiding a ship through a troubled sea. The stockholders were all connections of the family, except a few like Mr. Decker. It was all a picture of another age, something that never repeated itself in that manner any more.

  Nearly everyone Willis knew in later years seemed to share the belief that a great deal could be accomplished if a group of conflicting and often uncongenial personalities could only eat or drink together. Willis had attended dozens of steak and fish fries and office picnics with field sports on someone’s large estate, and formal dinners in the private dining rooms of country clubs and city clubs, punctuated by jokes and with set speeches at some point in the proceedings. They had to be dull; they began with a few good stories, and it was just as well to have your secretary keep a file of good stories. These were followed by a few remarks on the joy derived from being in such a fine group. What was business without the lasting friendships that one made on such occasions? Willis could accept the truth that good businessmen were seldom good orators, although they always thought they were. Their words were as tasteless as the florist’s table decorations, mixed like the cocktails in a wholesale way, as perfunctory and polite as the hired waiters who served them.

  None of these gatherings was ever like the old Harcourt luncheons. The very best of the old china and silver was set on the V
enetian lace tablecloths, and the champagne was always properly chilled. The food may have been simple but it was always hot and good. There was a sense of hospitality that was decorous, measured, and calm, because it was part of a tradition, solid as the sideboard and the family portraits. There was strawberry ice cream for dessert, made of strawberries from the garden and cream from the farm. There was black coffee in rice-pattern cups and no smoking in the dining room. Anyone who wanted cigars or cigarettes or brandy later would find them in the library.

  When the coffee appeared, Mr. Harcourt tapped on his glass, softly as though he were in no hurry. Yet the gentle tinkling sound rose above the scraps of luncheon conversation until no one spoke, and then Mr. Harcourt rose from his chair and glanced slowly up and down the dining room.

  “It is a pleasure to welcome you all here today,” he said, “as I have for so many years in the past and as my father did before me. This house is a part of the Harcourt Mill and it has always extended its hospitality to those who own the Harcourt Mill, and I hope it will continue to do so.”

  He stopped, but he was not groping for any words.

  “Most of us here are related and are only too well accustomed to this small ceremony. The Harcourt Mill has always been a family business whose shares have never been widely distributed. We have lived from the Harcourt Mill”—he tapped his lower lip softly—“for nearly eighty years.”

  Mr. Harcourt stopped again.

  “I think we have had a very successful year. I’ve already thanked you for your continued support, and I am glad to welcome a new face on the board—that of my nephew, Roger Harcourt, who should, perhaps, have been with us long before, considering the size of his interest.”

  Mr. Harcourt coughed and smiled and there was a slight stirring about the table. He waited until it subsided.

  “Some of these words may sound hollow to those of you who know only too well that my branch of the family is in control. Yet I hope I have always listened to suggestions. My office door is always open, but I know very well I’m like the King of France who said, ‘I am the state.’ Well, in a way I suppose I am, but though times have been changing, your dividends have gone up. I think we are all in a pretty sound position. I do not want to say, like another monarch, ‘After me the deluge.’”