Phyllis’ face changed. Then she said: “I’m glad, for Jimmy. I always thought Jimmy might want to. do something—different. It never appeared natural, to me, for him to come here, Charles.”
‘‘No? Why not?”
“It just didn’t, Charles. Jimmy is something very special, you know.”
“And what’s not special about this company?” But Charles smiled.
“Oh, Charles, it’s not that! You see, you might often remark that Jimmy is growing up, but I don’t think you ever really believed it. Or wanted it. But he is almost a man. And Jimmy has a wonderful mind. You’ve said that, yourself,” she added, quickly. “I’ve talked to him a great deal.”
“Did he ever tell you about—this?” asked Charles, jealously.
“Of course not. But I’ve known he was thinking of something lately. He’s grown quiet and sober. You know how he always was so interested in sports. And then he wasn’t.”
Charles did not answer. He looked at the pencil in his fingers. All at once, a door opened down the hall, and there was a mingling together of Wilhelm’s voice, light and impatient, and Jochen’s voice, chuckling and hearty. Phyllis still did not move, but the alertness sharpened in her. She glanced down at the book in her hand. Before Charles could say anything, she had risen, had put the book down before him. Taken aback, he looked at the title: Gustave Courbet.
Phyllis was standing beside him. She opened the book to the title page: Gustave Courbet—His Effect on Manet, Degas and Monet. It was a beautiful, large, wide book. Charles gaped as Phyllis hastily turned the pages; Charles saw flashes of color. Then the shaking fingers stopped at the portrait of Louise Colet. Charles stared at the reproduction, at the background of dull green, ruddy browns, at the black-gowned woman in the foreground, with her black bonnet and ribbons. But he hardly saw them. He was aware of Phyllis beside him, Phyllis who was breathing quickly, and whose sweet perfume floated all about her. He looked up at her face; it was strained and pale, the lips tremulous, the eyes too bright, the smile too fixed.
“You see how Courbet had abandoned the stilted and Victorian tradition,” she said. Her voice was loud and clear. Out of the corner of his eye Charles saw Wilhelm and Jochen on the threshold. Phyllis pretended not to see them. She went on, bending over the book, turning over the pages: “As you said, Charles, there is a magnificent honesty about Courbet’s work, a forceful splendor.”
Wilhelm was coming into the office, followed by the smiling Jochen. Charles bent over the book. “Yes,” he said. “A—a splendor.” He caught a line of text: “Courbet’s vigor and realism outraged European art circles.” Charles said aloud: “Courbet, I can see, outraged Europe with his vigorous realism.”
“And who the hell is Courbet?” asked Jochen, genially. Phyllis affected a start of embarrassment. She turned her head and smiled at her husband and brother-in-law. “How are you, Jochen? Wilhelm, I just don’t know what we are to do, about Charles, here! Oh, Wilhelm, I thought I’d wait in here with Charles until you had finished your work. What are we going to do about Charles, and this book we bought for the Bachs in New York?”
Wilhelm had come quickly to the desk. But he was looking at Charles with incredulous surprise. “What did you say about Courbet?” he asked, in his irritable voice.
“Why, Phyllis and I were just discussing some of the pictures,” said Charles, calmly. He paused, while he searched for a word. “I think, yes, I really think, that Courbet’s—”
“You said ‘revolutionary,’” interrupted Phyllis on a gay note.
“He was considered so,” said Wilhelm. He regarded Charles with even stronger surprise. “What impressed you most, in these reproductions, Charles?”
Fortunately, Charles was blessed with an excellent memory, and an eye for detail. He leaned back in his chair. “That portrait of Louise Colet. Er—natural. Not prettified. Powerful,” he added, soberly. “The lights and shadows on the face—realistic.”
Jochen was leaning against the desk, across from Charles. He looked at the book inquisitively, cocked his big head in order to try to see the text, or a picture. He said: “Well, who’s Courbet? Taken an interest in art lately, Charlie?”
“Could be,” responded Charles, in a mild voice. “When I build my new house, I might go in for a few good things.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Jochen. “What’s that? You’re going to give up that mausoleum? I’d like to see the day.”
‘‘Well, Wilhelm’s almost persuaded me,” said Charles, smiling sheepishly. “He’ll be sorry, too. I’ll leave it in his hands. You’re got to admit that Wilhelm has all the taste in the Wittmann family.”
Wilhelm was still incredulous. He looked at Jochen, as if for enlightenment, and to Charles’ happy relief Jochen was scowling. “I don’t know about that,” said Jochen. “Many people have said that Isabel’s in a class by herself, as far as taste is concerned. We’re supposed to have one of the finest houses in Andersburg.”
Wilhelm’s fine dark brows contracted. A cold expression settled on his face.
Phyllis was standing slight and straight beside her husband. Her hand was upon his arm. “I think Isabel has wonderful taste, myself,” she said, smiling at Jochen. “And I sometimes think that reproductions of antiques, which she prefers, are often just as handsome as the originals.”
“And don’t fall apart, either,” said Jochen, appeased.
The contraction of Wilhelm’s brows deepened. He turned a. thin shoulder away from Jochen. “What’s all this about Charles and the book?” he asked of his wife. As usual, the chill aloofness of his face softened when he looked at Phyllis.
Again, Phyllis was gay. “I just showed him the book, and he’s practically demanded that I let him keep it.”
“Not quite as bad as that,” said Charles, apologetically. But he put his hand on the book. “Well, I was just thinking. You could get another for the Bachs. However, if it is a promised present, I’ll just have to send to New York or Philadelphia for a copy.”
“Oh, you can keep it,” Wilhelm said. Again, he scrutinized Charles, and he smiled. “It wasn’t promised. I thought they might like it. But I believe I’d prefer you to have it, if that is what you want, Charles.”
Jochen, who was no fool, suddenly became conscious of something in the atmosphere. He looked slowly from Wilhelm to Charles, then back to Wilhelm again. He thrust out his bulbous lips.
Charles’ hand pressed heavier on the book. “Thanks, Wilhelm,” he said, with awkward feeling. “I’ll take it home with me, tonight. Jimmy will be interested, too.”
“Yes, I know Jimmy will,” Phyllis put in, with genuine tenderness. She turned to Wilhelm again. “Do you remember Mrs. Bach saying only recently that Jimmy looked so much like you, darling?”
Wilhelm said scoffingly: “That’s ridiculous. It’s just that he’s dark.” But he smiled again, remembering that Jimmy was a very handsome boy.
“I think,” began Jochen. But just then Mr. Parker entered the room and announced that he had been told that Mr. Jochen was “wanted” on his telephone. Jochen looked at his brothers swiftly. “I’ll take—” he said, and reached for the telephone on Charles’ desk. But Charles, pretending not to see or hear, reached for the telephone, himself. “I’d almost forgotten,” he said. “Parker, get me Mr. Brighton right away, will you?” He handed the telephone to his clerk.
Jochen stood up, slowly, lifting his bulk away from the desk on which he had been leaning. He said to Wilhelm: “Don’t forget Thursday.” Without a word to Charles or Phyllis, he walked heavily out of the room.
Imperceptibly, Charles made a gesture towards Mr. Parker. Mr. Parker, a man of long astuteness, put the telephone receiver to his ear, called Mr. Brighton’s number. He waited a moment, then said regretfully: “The line is busy, Mr. Wittmann.”
“All right. I’ll try, myself, in a few moments,” said Charles, waving him away. Mr. Parker left the room noiselessly, closed the door behind him.
Wilhelm sat on the corner of
the desk, and lit a cigarette with quick, restless movements. “Look here, Charles,” he said, “I’ve just thought of something. Phyllis and I are giving a dinner for a few friends on Friday. One of them is from New York, and is an authority on Monet. Will you come to dinner, and listen to the lecture afterwards?”
Something in Charles relaxed. Inwardly, he could think of nothing more terrible than what his brother had suggested. He smiled with an air of pleasure. “Well, you know how little I know about these things, Wilhelm. But I’d like to learn.”
Wilhelm puffed rapidly, then tossed aside the cigarette. He said: “I was just saying to Phyllis, only last night, that I was beginning to have hopes of you, Charles.” He stood up.
Charles rose. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. His small brown eyes rested penetratingly upon his brother. “I’ve taken an option on the Burnsley property, Wilhelm.”
There was only the slightest hesitation before Wilhelm said: “Good.” He touched Phyllis’ hand gently. “Good,” he repeated.
“But not a word about the Wittmann Civic Park until Thursday,” said Charles. “That’ll be for you to announce. And then we’ll give it to the newspapers.”
Wilhelm tried to hide his gratification. “It was a little embarrassing for me. Jochen came in, just as I was finishing, to talk to me about the selling of the river land to the Connington. He had a few more arguments—”
Charles laughed richly. “But none of them included the beautiful smoke chimneys you’d have almost under your nose, did they?”
Wilhelm’s mercurial, black eyes sharpened. “No,” he said, with unusual slowness. “They didn’t. But they will—on—Thursday.”
Charles, who did not believe in taking any unnecessary chances, walked out of his office with his brother and Phyllis. He went into the warm August day with them, and stood with them while their carriage was being brought to the door. He never remembered what he said, or what they said to him. But he gave Phyllis a deep glance of gratitude, and she smiled at him swiftly.
The carriage rolled away, and Charles waved. When he returned to his office, Jochen was there again, in one of the chairs. Charles sat down behind his desk. The big book was still there. “Nice of Phyllis and Willie, wasn’t it?” he said, indicating the book with a nod of his head.
“Yes, very,” replied Jochen, significantly. He stared at Charles. “Who the hell is Courbet? Or perhaps you wouldn’t know, eh?”
Charles lifted an eyebrow. “Courbet,” he replied, “was born in France, in 1819. He was considered to be a—”
“Revolutionary something-or-other,” supplied Jochen with heavy sarcasm.
“In a way, yes.” Charles leaned back in his chair. “Anything to discuss, Joe?”
They eyed each other for a long moment in silence. Jochen got to his feet. He pursed his mouth, his head bent, thinking. Then he grinned. He touched his forehead lightly with his hand, in a mock salute. “Not a thing, Charlie, not a thing,” he said, and went out of the office.
Charles’ face drew itself in lines of formidable tightness after his brother had gone. So. Joe had lost again. Joe knew something had happened in this office, but he did not know what it was. “Damn them all, the confounded idiots,” said Charles, aloud, taking up his notes. There was only one consolation: Friederich was out of town and could not be reached by Jochen.
Then Charles put down the notes again, very slowly. The wind blew through the windows. But it could not blow away the lingering scent of Phyllis’ perfume. It was in the room, like a sweet and subtle presence. Like Phyllis, herself, with her blue eyes and charming, sensitive mouth. Charles could see her as if she stood there beside him, as she had stood only a short time ago. The lace at her throat had parted a little more, and he had seen the hollow of her throat, filled with soft shadow.
CHAPTER VII
Charles Wittmann was not a man who ever suffered from prolonged fits of despondency. He had his “moods,” as Jochen’s wife had remarked, but these moods were usually ones of strong quiet anger, and not obstinacy. Nor were they attacks of depression or melancholy, baseless and obscure. He knew he had a liverish condition, and that he often over-ate, and had a fondness for beer. Whenever he was depressed, he could usually find the cause in a too-lavish indulgence in sauerbraten or spareribs, or beer, or cheesecake.
But on Wednesday the condition he had thought “tiredness” or “disappointment” had become a sort of heavy apprehension and weariness. He would soon be forty. But forty was the prime of life—or so they said, he thought to himself. Forty. Perhaps he needed a vacation. He had promised himself a vacation all summer, but there had been too much to do. Moreover, there had been Jimmy. He had never taken a vacation without Jimmy, and Jimmy, all summer, had been under tutorship. Still, thought Charles, I ought to have gone to Cape Cod, or perhaps to Atlantic City. A change. We were busy this summer, and I ought to thank God for that, considering conditions. But I could have left the business with Joe for two or three weeks.
He always attacked his work with steady enthusiasm and interest. But today, he just sat behind his desk, letters open before him, and notes of calls. It was half-past nine, and he had just come in. He had been too “tired” this morning to arrive at his usual time, which was half-past eight. Perhaps it was the weather, which had turned very hot again. He got up and went to his windows. By straining his neck and turning his head, he could see the mountains in the distance. They were brilliant green against a glaring sky. It would be even hotter, later. He could hear the thunder of his shops, the crunching of wagons on gravel. He liked that thunder, remembering that many factories, all over the country, were becoming muted. But the thunder could not please him this morning. He stood at the window, yawning, feeling a heaviness all through his body, an aversion for work.
He tried to find the cause of his weariness. There was nothing to worry about—nothing. In the past two days he had recovered from his disappointment about Jimmy. He was not only reconciled now to his son’s decision: he was almost elated, and very proud. He was not worried about the meeting on Thursday. Wilhelm and Friederich were with him. He had not over-eaten, lately. He was not “liverish.” Definitely, it was the heat. Forty. He went back to his desk and looked at the notes about his calls, written down in Mr. Parker’s neat handwriting. A Mr. Walter Lord had called three times, once at eight-thirty, again at nine, and again at nine-twenty. Very important, Mr. Parker had written.
Now, who the hell was Mr. Lord? He pressed the bell on his desk, and Mr. Parker, moving quickly and noiselessly as always, came in promptly. “Who,” asked Charles, “is Mr. Lord? I see he’s called three times.”
“He didn’t say, Mr. Wittmann,” replied the other man. “I asked him for information. He isn’t a salesman. He just said it was extremely important to see you.”
“Probably another inventor.”
Mr. Parker looked at him seriously. “I was just coming in, sir, when you rang. Mr. Lord is outside, in the waiting room.”
“The devil he is! Well, you saw him, Parker. What does he want?”
Mr. Parker was thoughtful. “I’ve looked him over, sir. He has a briefcase. I wouldn’t say he is a lawyer. He’s not from Andersburg. I know that. And I wouldn’t say he is an inventor. When I talked to him on the telephone, before he came, he sounded very sharp and impatient.”
“Is that so?” said Charles, with unusual exasperation. “Well, you know very well, Parker, that I don’t see every Tom, Dick, and Harry who chooses to rush in here any time it pleases him. Find out what, he wants, who he is, and handle him yourself. Good God, I have no time for strangers.”
But Mr. Parker did not go. “I’ve been with you a long time, Mr. Wittmann. I was with Mr. Emil, too. I’ve learned something in thirty-five years. I can pick out salesmen, and inventors, and business men at. a glance. Mr. Lord isn’t any of them. I think,” Mr. Parker added, “that you ought to see him, sir. I’ve never seen anyone like Mr. Lord before. He has a kind of—I should think you’d call it authorit
y, and he’s very angry because I wouldn’t bring him in here at once.”
Charles began: “Well, just tell him he must state his business to you—” Then he stopped. If someone impressed Parker, that someone was of importance. Charles said: “You think I ought to waste my time on him, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I do think so.”
Charles shifted in his chair, with annoyance. “Sounds damn mysterious to me. Did he give you his card?”
“No.”
“No card?”
“No.”
They looked at each other. Charles drew in his lips, thoughtfully. He said, after a few brief moments of consideration: “Send him in. But I warn you, if he’s a salesman or something like that—”
Mr. Parker went out. I know, thought Charles, with rising irritability. An insurance man. Parker’s getting old. But he watched the door with sudden interest. It opened again. Mr. Parker was admitting a small but upright man, carrying a briefcase. Mr. Parker lingered on the threshold. The stranger turned to him. “You may close the door,” he said. Amazingly, Mr. Parker closed the door.
At one glance, Charles understood what Mr. Parker had meant. This man had not only a “kind of authority,” but he had the appearance of one who demanded, and secured, instant obedience. There was a swiftness and compactness about him, a hard dignity in spite of his somewhat short stature. He was thin, lean, and well dressed. He wore his clothing as though he were a soldier, an officer. One expected brown eyes in such a brown face, but his eyes were extraordinarily light blue under thick gray brows. His hair was almost white. He had a straight, thin-lipped mouth and a great beak of a nose, and an air of command.
He came at once to Charles’ desk, and Charles, to his own surprise, found himself rising and extending his hand. “Mr. Lord?” he said.
Mr. Lord took his hand, shook it briefly. “Mr. Charles Wittmann?” His accent was decidedly not that of Pennsylvania. Rather, it had a Yankee twang.
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