H. M. Pulham, Esquire

by John P. Marquand

  “I’ll just be gone for a day,” I said. “I’ll come back on the midnight. You don’t mind, do you? I suppose I’ll see Bill King.”

  Kay had been holding my hand and she drew hers away when I finished.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Go ahead and tell him, and tell me what he says.”

  “Bill won’t say much,” I said. “Bill’s awfully clever, Kay, but he doesn’t often say much when I tell him about myself.”

  And then she did something that surprised me. Instead of sitting with her hands clasped about her knees she turned around to me all of a sudden and threw her arms around me. It surprised me because she was not an impulsive person.

  “Harry,” she said, “just don’t feel so inferior when you speak about him. You’re so much better than he is—ten times nicer. You’re so darling to me—always.”

  The new firm where Bill was working was on the twentieth floor of a building on Forty-second Street. The reception hall, when you got out of the elevator, reminded me a little of the Bullard office. There was the same sort of girl, but instead of shelves of books behind her there were some Byzantine arches with ivy growing up the columns. Bill had a big office of his own, with a tapestry on the wall that showed a rather plump Saint George on a horse, running a spear through a sick-looking dragon. Bill had a Jacobean table with three telephones and his own secretary typing in a little cubbyhole.

  “Hello, Harry,” Bill said. “Just sit down and wait a minute,” and he began pacing up and down on a soft carpet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a place like this, Bill?” I asked.

  “It’s quite a layout, isn’t it?” Bill said. “It’s all eyewash, though. It gets the boys from Detroit. Don’t interrupt me.”

  Bill began pacing up and down the carpet again.

  “Miss Prentice, come here a minute. This is Mr. Pulham, Miss Prentice. Take a memo to get Burton’s Arabian Nights—every driver his own Caliph of Bagdad.”

  “Bill,” I said, “are you going crazy?”

  “Listen, Harry,” Bill said, “you’ve got to get out of here. You know how it is when I’m working. Come around to the apartment at half-past five.”

  “What apartment?” I asked.

  “My apartment. I’m living in town now—an apartment and a Jap. His name is Horuchi. Call up the apartment, Miss Prentice, and tell Horuchi that Mr. Pulham’s going up there. Tell him to shake up some Martinis. I’ll be there at half-past five, and we’ll get Marvin. Marvin’s down at Bullard’s, and then we’ll go down to the Algonquin. I’m meeting some of the boys there tonight and then we’ll all go to a musical show—any musical show. Give Mr. Pulham the address of the apartment, Miss Prentice …”

  “Bill,” I said, “never mind about Marvin Myles.”

  “Don’t you want to see her?”

  “I just want to talk to you, Bill,” I said.

  “All right,” Bill said. “Just snap over to the apartment, Harry. I’ll see you at half-past five.… Where was I now, Miss Prentice?”

  When I saw his apartment I knew that he must be making a lot of money. There was a big theatrical studio sort of room with a bedroom off it and a Japanese in a white coat. Before Bill arrived a blond girl came in. She said her name was Franchine Parke, but I could call her Franchine, and I told her I was a friend of Bill’s.

  “Bill does have some of the damnedest friends,” she said.

  “Bill must be doing awfully well,” I said.

  “I’ll say he’s doing well.”

  “Bill’s awfully clever,” I said.

  “Clever? Why, Bill’s as slick as an eel. You can’t two-time Bill.”

  Horuchi gave us each a cocktail, and then another.

  “I certainly don’t want to two-time Bill,” I said.

  “Who said I said I wanted to?” Franchine asked.

  “I didn’t say you said you wanted to,” I said.

  “Well, then what have you been saying?”

  “God knows,” I said.

  “You’re kind of dumb,” Franchine said, “but you’re kind of sweet.”

  “You know that’s funny,” I told her. “A lot of girls have said that about me.”

  “That means you’re that way with girls. Are you that way with girls?”

  Just then Horuchi hurried to the door and let Bill in. He tossed his hat and coat to Horuchi and then he looked at me and laughed.

  “Hello, Billy,” Franchine said.

  “Hello,” Bill said, “how did you get here?”

  “Because you asked me,” Franchine said, “you big bum.”

  “I remember now,” Bill said. “I can’t remember everything,” and then he looked at me and laughed again. “Well, well, here we are.”

  “And what do we do now?” Franchine asked.

  “Listen, sweetie,” Bill said, “just run into the bedroom and powder your nose. Harry’s an out-of-town boy and I want to talk to him.”

  “I want to talk to Harry too,” Franchine said.

  Bill walked over to the couch and picked Franchine up. Horuchi opened the bedroom door.

  “Go in there and stay there,” Bill said. “Lock her in, Horuchi.”

  He rubbed the palm of his hand over his hair.

  “This has been quite a day,” Bill said.

  “Who’s Franchine?” I asked.

  “Oh, she isn’t anything,” Bill said. “You’ve got to relax when you work the way I do and the boys from Detroit all like Franchine. Don’t look so worried, boy.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” said Bill. “You’ve got to learn to take things like this. Be tolerant, boy, be tolerant.”

  “I’m perfectly tolerant,” I said.

  “Well, that’s fine,” Bill said. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right, Bill. I’m awfully happy.”

  “Why?” Bill asked. “What should make you happy?”

  “Because I’m engaged, Bill,” I said. “It’s going to be announced next week.”

  “Engaged?” Bill repeated. He stopped. Franchine was beating with her fists against the bedroom door. “Do I know her?”

  “Yes,” I said, “you know her. It’s Kay.”

  Bill walked over to the table and set his glass down.

  “Kay?” he repeated. “You’re engaged to Kay?”

  I was surprised that he was so slow about it, when his mind usually worked so fast.

  “Yes,” I said. “You remember her—Kay—Cornelia Motford.”

  “Naturally I remember her,” Bill answered. “You’ve certainly tied yourself up if you’re engaged to Kay.”

  Bill put his hands into the pockets of his carefully creased trousers. Then he took one hand out of his pocket, and spread his fingers apart, and stared at them.

  “Yes, you’ve certainly tied yourself up.”

  His whole attitude, his clothes and his apartment, made me angry.

  “If you want to know,” I said, “I’m glad that a girl like Kay wants to marry me.”

  Bill’s cheeks grew redder and the lines deepened about the corners of his mouth.

  “Harry,” he said, “I don’t know why, but I’m awfully fond of you.”

  “That goes with me, Bill,” I said. “You’ll be my best man, won’t you?”

  Then Bill held his hand out to me.

  “Don’t think I’m not glad,” he said. “Kay’s a great girl. Be sure to give her my love.”

  “Yes, I will,” I said.

  “It’s just hard to get it into my mind,” Bill said. “The more I think of it the better I like it. Let’s have another drink, and I’ll let Franchine out.”

  I was glad that I had come down. Now that I had seen Bill I didn’t have any doubts any more. I wanted to get back to Kay—back where I belonged.

  “Harry,” Bill asked, “have you told Marvin Myles?”

  “No,” I said.

  “All right,” Bill said. “I’ll tell her.”

  XXV
r />   It’s a Long, Long Walk

  Ever since Christmas Eve, as I see it now, I was not moving events, but events were moving me. The whole world had made up its mind that Kay and I were going to be married and everyone was pleased about it. The girls I used to know, friends of mine and friends of Kay’s, were just as cordial as they could be, but a sort of interest which they used to have in me was completely gone. When I spoke to Kay about it she said it was the same with the men she knew. Everyone had moved away from us, leaving us entirely alone. When I saw Cecilia Leverett, for instance, she was just as nice as she could be. She said that Kay was such a fine girl, although Kay was older than she was—she remembered when Kay was a big girl at school and how well Kay played field hockey; but Cecilia never asked me to come around any more. There was nothing left but Kay and me.

  When you came down to it, there wasn’t much chance to see Kay either. She was out with her mother, buying clothes or sheets or towels, or else we were going around with Mrs. Motford, looking at houses or apartments. We kept wondering whether we ought to live in Cambridge or Brookline or in town, and finally we rented a little house near the Esplanade. After that I would go with Kay and Mrs. Motford to look at roll after roll of wallpaper and bolt after bolt of material for curtains. I tried to say that Kay could pick out the papers and the curtains, that she knew more about it than I did; but instead of making it easier Kay would grow exasperated. She said that it was my house as much as hers and that I ought to realize that she wanted it the way I wanted it. Then I would suggest, perhaps, that the living room be done in green. Then Kay and Mrs. Motford, who had been arguing for an hour, would agree at once that green was an ugly and difficult color and not Kay’s color. Then Kay would get tired and Mrs. Motford would get tired and the next day they would start all over again, looking at wallpapers and at colors.

  I was never reminded so much of death as I was when we were engaged. There were certain pieces of furniture that we could have now, but it was necessary to remember that there were lots of other pieces—rugs and sofas and tables and pictures—which we would have when Mother and Mrs. Motford died. When Mrs. Motford died we could have the large Persian carpet with the Tree of Life that was in the parlor. When Mother died we could have the Inness, and it would be much better to plan on having these things some day; and yet when we actually did plan, both Mother and Mrs. Motford would always resent it. They would say that Kay and I talked as though they were dead already, and neither of them was going to die just to please Kay or me; and once Mother said that I wanted her to die, and Kay told me that Mrs. Motford had said the same thing.

  “Harry,” Kay said, “let’s talk it over by ourselves. Do you like that wallpaper with stripes for the living room?”

  “Which one?” I asked. “They all had stripes.”

  “You can be maddening sometimes,” Kay said. “Don’t you remember the one with the little thin green stripes? You said you liked green.”

  I am afraid that I was not much help. I never could visualize how paper would look. Sometimes when Kay was not tired she would laugh about it and say that everything would be all right when it was all over. I felt that way too. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to be alone with Kay and I used to tell her so when I kissed her good night.

  “Yes,” she used to answer me, “we’ll get away from everything, won’t we? I’m so tired I just can’t hear myself think.”

  When the wedding presents began to come in Kay pasted numbers on them and kept a little book. I could not understand how so many people of whom I had never heard could know about me. Now, of course, I know that most of it was a worldly sort of game, which Kay and I have played ever since. I can imagine, now, all sorts of people saying: “The Pulham boy and the Motford girl are going to be married. We’ve got to do something about it. The Motfords gave our Beatrice a green glass bowl—and what was it the Pulhams gave her? They gave her something.” First the presents filled the sewing room in Kay’s house and then the upstairs sitting room. There were a good many sets of beautiful leather-bound books by writers hitherto unknown to me—solid, shy Victorians, lost in the postwar shuffle. There were histories of England, excerpts from great orations, famous homes and gardens, and some memoirs. They have been on the library shelves ever since and they still look well. Then there were dozens and dozens of plates, and of course the silver and the linen. But Kay kept track of them all and even began to write letters of thanks immediately in order to get them out of the way.

  “Harry and I simply adore the little tea cozy and all the beautiful little napkins that go with it. How did you ever find them? You must come to see them yourself on the tea table when we are in our new house.”

  Kay began to get pale and tired, and Mrs. Motford and I kept asking her to go upstairs and take a rest, but I suppose that only great minds can delegate authority, and I have never known a woman who could. Kay wanted to know if I had bought presents for the ushers and if her father had done anything about champagne, and if I really knew anybody who could help me about the steamer tickets. We were going to Europe on our honeymoon and she wanted to know exactly where we would be from day to day. She wanted to know whether I had enough luggage and whether I had been sure to remember to engage a hotel room in New York and whether I had seats on the five o’clock train.

  “That’s all right, Kay,” I said. “I’m looking after that.”

  “I know you are,” Kay said; “but if I don’t remember, somebody’s going to forget. Have you heard when Bill King’s coming?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s coming up the night before.”

  “Well, do you think we can catch our train?” Kay asked. “What will we do if we don’t? And have you got a gold piece to give Dr. Mowbry?”

  “Don’t worry so, Kay,” I told her.

  “Suppose when we get to the Biltmore,” Kay said, “they think we aren’t married?”

  Mrs. Motford said that there was nothing like a country wedding and so we were going to be married at the Motford family place at Concord. It was not far from the bridge where the battle was fought, and the land where the house stood went straight down to the edge of the river. The house itself had a bullet hole near the second story, pierced by a British musketball, and carefully marked by a marble tablet. I had never taken the bullet hole or the house very seriously until my wedding; I had never realized until then how seriously Kay and all the Motfords took it.

  Bill King came down a day ahead, in time for the ushers’ dinner. “You needn’t think of anything,” he said, “and the less you think, the better.” He went over all the tickets and took charge of the ring and the gold piece for the minister. He saw about having my trunks and bags checked and he helped Guy take care of Kay’s and he helped Mother and Mary make arrangements to motor out to Concord in the morning.

  “Won’t your Club be having one of those ceremonies?” Bill asked.

  “Oh,” I said, “why, I’d forgotten about that.”

  “When is it,” Bill asked, “that they get you in a corner and sing a little song and give you a coffeepot or something?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Bill,” I said. “Are you sure you’ve got the ring?”

  “Keep your pants on,” said Bill, “and say what the man tells you out of the book.”

  I had been over the service carefully, so as not to make a mistake.

  “If this ever happens to me,” Bill said, “I’ll do it before a New York judge somewhere downtown.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, “but Kay couldn’t do that.”

  “That’s so,” Bill said. “Kay couldn’t—or she wouldn’t.”

  Bill and I spent the night before the wedding in Concord in a house belonging to one of Mrs. Motford’s cousins, whom I had not met before and who said, after this, I was to call her Cousin Violet. Bill had two silver flasks with him and rinsed out the glass in the bathroom every time he took a drink without my telling him to do it, but I did not take any. I wanted Bill and everyone else to s
ee that I did not have to take a drink to marry Kay.

  The Motfords asked us over to dinner the night before, just Bill and me and the immediate members of the family.

  Though Bill had had a few drinks in our room beforehand, just in case there might not be anything at the Motfords’, he took several cocktails, but it only made him pleasanter and gayer. He told Mrs. Motford that he loved her dress and he wanted to know all about the bullet hole in the house, because his business was largely made up of shooting holes in things.

  “And everybody shoots holes in me,” Bill said. “You wouldn’t know it, Mrs. Motford, but my heart is full of holes, like a piece of cheese.”

  Mrs. Motford looked puzzled at first, but she told me later that she never thought that I would have such a witty friend. All the out-of-town aunts and cousins were laughing at something he had said, when Kay came in.

  Bill took her hand and suddenly bent forward and kissed her cheek. I could see that no one had expected it, not even Kay.

  “You’re looking wonderful,” Bill said.

  “It makes me feel a whole lot better if you think so,” Kay said.

  Then she held out both her hands to me, and her hands were cold, and everybody moved away, leaving us together.

  “Harry,” she whispered, “do you want to back out?”

  “No,” I said. “Do you?”