Point of No Return

by John P. Marquand

  “Oh, Father,” Jessica said, and she threw her arms around him. “You know you’ll get used to it in time.”

  It was hard to place events in order after all that time. They kept standing out irrationally by themselves, like sentences removed from the context of a carefully written page, but it was only a short time after this conversation that Jessica had shown him all through the Lovell house. It was a Saturday afternoon and Mr. Lovell must have been away playing golf at the Shore Club, as he usually did on Saturdays, and Miss Lovell had been out paying calls on Johnson Street. It was one of those days in Clyde when you wished the furnace were still going but felt it self-indulgent to have a fire in the cellar because it was after the first of May. The house was a little damp and the dampness brought out those smells one always associated with old Clyde houses, the scent of old leather, old carpets and of dust that could never entirely be swept away.

  “It’s awfully funny,” Jessica said. “I don’t believe you’ve ever seen the house. I don’t believe you’ve ever been upstairs.”

  It struck him as strange, too, knowing Jessica so well, that he had only seen the front hall, with the portraits and the dusky mirror, and the little parlor with the Aubusson carpet which had been made for it in France, and the wallpaper room and the dining room with its highly waxed English table.

  “You know all the rest of me,” she said, “and the house is a part of me.”

  They walked up the broad staircase hand in hand to the landing and from there, where the stairs divided, to the upper hall, lighted by its two beautiful arched windows. The tall clock, which he had heard tick and strike the hour but which he had never seen, was standing near the landing and its ticking only emphasized the cool silence. The bedrooms were just as they should have been, each with its four-poster and its canopy, each with its bureau or its highboy. Jessica’s room was the smallest, next to Mr. Lovell’s large front room. She had slept in it as long as she could remember and her father’s feelings were always hurt when she wanted to move the furniture because her mother had arranged the room herself, even down to the china dogs on the mantel above the little fireplace. Its windows, each with a window seat, looked over the formal garden where the tulips were already pushing up through the black earth of the box-bordered bed.

  It was an enormous house, much too large for the Lovells now. No one occupied the third floor any longer, but all the rooms were still furnished as they had been when there were more Lovells. Finally there was the storeroom, containing generations of trunks and hatboxes. A narrow flight of unpainted pine stairs, redolent of pitch and dried by hundreds of summers, led upwards from the storeroom to the cupola. The cupola, enclosed by arched windows with old, uneven panes of glass, rose above the slate roof and above the elaborate railing of the widow’s walk and looked across the town to the river.

  As he stood there holding Jessica’s hand, a little out of breath because they had hurried up the stairs, it seemed to him that they had traveled a long way together and that together they had reached a height where nothing could touch them. The leaves of the elms were still that soft, yellowish green and the trees rose plumelike above the roofs and the yards of the other houses. It was a dull day, because of the east wind, and the river had a leaden color and the sea was misty.

  “There’s your house,” she said.

  He could see the line of Spruce Street beneath them and he could see a corner of the house through the trees.

  “There’s the Meaders’ yard,” he said, and then they were in each other’s arms. They were above everything and all alone.

  “I like it here,” he told her. “You and I are all that matter here.”

  They did not stay long because it was cold and drafty and they never went there again; yet whenever he thought of that spring and summer when he was engaged to Jessica and ever afterwards when he smelled seasoned pine, he was there in the cupola again, above the new leaves of the elms with Jessica, safe from what Mr. Lovell thought and safe from what other people were thinking and saying. They should have run away and got married, but neither of them could have thought seriously of such a thing. There seemed to be so much time that summer and everything seemed settled, and so it was, until the autumn, and so it should have been and might have been.

  Mr. Lovell said that night in the library that it was still a tentative matter and that no one should be told except immediate members of the family. He supposed that Charles should tell his mother, his father, and his sister, but there was no reason to tell the Marchbys yet. He did not want any family jubilation, because there was no immediate reason for it. It was an ordeal for him, because Jessica was his only daughter and all he had in the world. He would face the ordeal, but at least he could expect reasonable consideration. There would be no engagement teas, no rounds of calling, and no other jubilation until matters were more definitely resolved than they were at present. Marriage, in case Charles did not know it, and Jessie too, was a serious matter. When two people were infatuated—he knew it was a graceless word, but one which he really thought described the situation—they could not be said to know each other or the complications of each other’s backgrounds. Any engagement was a severe emotional strain and this whole affair’s coming so suddenly was more of a strain on him than it was on Charles. He had not asked for it or expected it, but now they must share this period of strain together as best they could. They must bear and forbear and it was no time for jubilation.

  Nevertheless, it seemed to Charles that there was an undercurrent of illicit jubilation. When he and Jessica had told Miss Georgianna, after Mr. Lovell had gone to bed that evening, she did not need a glass of water. Instead, she kissed Jessica and then Charles, and she told Charles that he must call her Aunt Georgianna now. She sounded like his own Aunt Jane when she told Jessica that she could have the silver tea set.

  “And what did Laurence say when you told him?” she asked.

  “It was dreadful,” Jessica said, “but he was awfully sweet. Wasn’t he sweet about it, Charley?”

  But Miss Lovell said of course he was not sweet about it. That would be more than could be expected of him.

  “You’ll have to learn to put up with him, Charley. You’ll get used to him in time. And now you’d better run along home. Jessica must be tired.”

  Jessica did look pale and tired, but she told him in the hall that she was very happy. She never knew that she had loved him so much. It was dreadful knowing what the two people she loved most in the world must have been going through.

  “I feel just as though I had been cut in two, darling,” she said, “and now I’m growing together again. Everything will be better now. You wait and see. Father didn’t hurt your feelings, did he?”

  There was a strange egocentric quality about being in love that created an acute perception but clouded any rational judgment. He was profoundly touched that she had been able to see that he might have been hurt. She was the gentlest, kindest, most understanding person in the world.

  “He can’t hurt me,” he said, “as long as you understand.”

  “Oh, darling,” she whispered, “I do understand. More than you think, so much more than you think.”

  It was past the family’s bedtime when he left the car at Rowell’s Garage, but even so they were all still sitting in the parlor. He knew at once from the quick, alert way they all turned toward him that they had been waiting for him.

  “Charley dear,” his mother said, “aren’t you going to tell us what happened?”

  “Charley,” his father asked, before there was any time to answer, “did you see Laurence Lovell?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, “I saw him.”

  “Charley.” His mother looked hurt. “Aren’t you going to tell us what he said?”

  All at once he was very glad they were all there waiting, because they were on his side and they would be no matter what.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m engaged to Jessica, but I’m only to tell you. It isn’t to be announced y
et.”

  It sounded as dry as dust when he told it but he never forgot how happy they looked. Dorothea hugged him, a very unusual thing for her to do, and his mother began to cry, but it was only, she said, because she was so happy, and his father shook hands with him.

  “Oh, dear me,” he said, “I wish I’d seen Laurence Lovell.”

  “Charley”—Dorothea hugged him again—“tell us what he said.”

  Suddenly he was very glad to tell them everything.

  “I don’t think he liked it much,” he began. “First he asked Jessica to get him a glass of water.”

  “Oh, dear me,” John Gray said. “A glass of water.”

  “I don’t think he thought it was serious at first,” Charles went on, “until we began talking about money.”

  He had never told them about his brokerage account and they were asking him why he had been so secretive and he found it hard to explain. He could only say there were some things he did not like to talk about, but there it was. He and Jessica were engaged, although it was not to be announced.

  “And I don’t want anyone to do anything about it,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to tell anybody.”

  “I can’t quite fit this all together,” his father said, “but it seems to me that Laurence Lovell was mildly insulting, Charley.”

  “I told you he didn’t like it,” Charles answered.

  “And that’s one part of it that I don’t like,” John Gray said. “I think I’d better go and see Laurence Lovell myself tomorrow.”

  It was the last thing that Charles had expected or wanted and it was utterly uncalled-for but he was not able to dissuade him.

  “Can’t you leave him alone?” Charles asked. “What did he ever do to you, Father?”

  John Gray smiled and stared straight at the wall in front of him.

  “That’s just it,” he said. “He never did do anything.”

  “Now, Charley,” his mother said, “of course your father must have a talk with Mr. Lovell if you and Jessica are engaged and I think it would be very nice if we asked Mr. Lovell and Miss Georgianna here to dinner. Don’t you, John?”

  “No, Esther,” John Gray said. “I don’t think it’s necessary to ask Laurence Lovell to dinner.”

  His father was playing poker at the Pine Trees when Charles got back from Boston the next evening. It was the Pine Tree get-together night, an annual occasion on which they all met at the firehouse and ate steamed clams and hamburgers, so Charles did not see his father until later. His mother and Dorothea both told him that his father had been to see Mr. Lovell that morning but when he came home he had been very busy telephoning Boston—something to do with some sort of auxiliary schooner—and that he had not mentioned Mr. Lovell and they had not wanted to ask him.

  Mr. Lovell, however, had spoken of it himself when Charles had gone to see Jessica after supper.

  “Your father dropped in this morning, Charles,” Mr. Lovell said.

  “I told him I wished he wouldn’t,” Charles said.

  “There was no reason at all, under the circumstances, why he shouldn’t have,” Mr. Lovell said. “We had a very pleasant talk—largely about financial matters.”

  “I’m glad it was pleasant, sir,” Charles said, but he could not very well ask Mr. Lovell what financial matters had been discussed.

  His father never told him either. He was in his room upstairs later, reading The Anatomy of Melancholy, and he called to Charles to say good night.

  “Oh, there you are, Charley,” he said. “I had a little talk with Laurence Lovell this morning.”

  “What did you talk about?” Charles asked.

  “Oh, this and that—financial matters. Do you know what I think, Charley?”

  “What?” Charles asked.

  “I think I’ll get out of this market. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I had to go to Gerald’s last week to get some pills. The market’s getting on my nerves.” He closed The Anatomy of Melancholy and placed it on the table. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t live on my money like the Lovells, for a while, and let someone else worry.”

  “You’re not serious, are you?” Charles said.

  “I don’t see why you never believe me, Charley,” John Gray answered. “I’ve never liked doing the same thing all the time. There’s too much else going on. Dorothea’s getting married in June and you’re engaged. I’ve been using my mind too much. Now what I really need is a little sea air. Look at this, Charley.”

  He picked up a photograph from the table. It was a picture of a schooner.

  “It’s the Zaza. It’s a damned funny name, isn’t it? People who own yachts and horses never have much imagination. The Zaza. Sixty-five feet overall. Three in the crew. You’ll like the captain, Charley. He says garlic cures indigestion, but he bunks forward with the crew. She’ll be in the river tomorrow.”

  “You mean to say you’ve bought that thing?” Charles asked.

  “I wish you wouldn’t jump at conclusions,” his father said. “I know my place, Charley. That’s what I told Laurence Lovell this morning. I’ve just chartered her for a month. I need some relaxation.”

  “I wish you’d have some sense of proportion,” Charles said.

  It must have been a part of Clyde folklore still—his father and that schooner-yacht called the Zaza—but at least he only had her for a month.

  “Father,” he asked, “did you do this because you were going to talk with Mr. Lovell?”

  His father did not answer him specifically.

  “That’s a very sensible question, Charley. I won’t say yes and I won’t say no. I admit it has its juvenile side.” His father was enjoying every minute of it. He was having a wonderful time. “I’m sorry if it embarrasses you, Charley,” he said, “but aren’t you glad I’m getting out of the market?”

  “If you’re out, you won’t stay out,” Charles said. “You can’t.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so sure of everything,” his father answered. “I might stay out.”

  He was still holding the photograph of that schooner-yacht, a ridiculous plaything with its full white billowing sails. Everything had gone too far, Charles was thinking. Nothing could end in defiance of the laws of gravity.

  “I wish I could believe it,” he said.

  He was thinking of what Sam had said long ago, that it was all a lot of guff. His father had assumed his old look of composed displeasure.

  “That’s not very complimentary, Charley,” he said.

  “Why don’t you set up a trust fund for Mother?” Charles asked. “Then I’d be very complimentary, Father.”

  He had asked the same question again and again lately and his father’s reaction was always exactly the same. “How many times have I told you,” he asked, “that I agree with you? Of course, I’m going to do it, but Hugh Blashfield isn’t going to handle it and there isn’t any hurry. Don’t be so worried, Charley.”

  Charles never liked to think about that schooner in the river and he only went aboard her once or twice. He told Jessica that he was ashamed of it and that he wished his father would keep her at Marblehead and not in the river. He always had a feeling that he ought to apologize to everyone and explain, but he could not very well explain that the boat was symbolic and a gesture, and after all no one seemed to be as upset about this as he was. Jessica was only amused and said it was just like his father and that it was nice he had something to play with. Dorothea said that of course it was silly and ridiculously extravagant, but then he was only going to have it for a month and it probably did not cost much more than that winter cruise to the Caribbean. His mother was more definite, because she always accepted everything that John Gray did. If he had earned the money—that was the way she put it because she always thought of money as being earned—there was no reason why he should not use it. There were all sorts of other, bigger yachts everywhere and it was not as though he were not sharing it with everybody. He was taking everyone he knew for a sail and there was no reaso
n why he should not have some pleasure himself for once. He had worked so hard for years at the mill and no one had appreciated him and now that he was a success, as she always knew he would be, it was not fair to be so critical. He deserved to have a good time and she wished that Charles could see what a very remarkable man he was. She wished that Charles understood him as well as Dorothea.

  “Charley,” she said, “you’re getting as fussy as Jackie Mason.”

  21

  A Formal Announcement Will Be Necessary

  A haze of unreality surrounded that summer and this may have been the reason why Charles found himself seeking Jackie Mason’s company again. Jackie was still what he had always been—a constant quantity. When Charles told Jackie Mason that he hated to think what everyone was saying about his father’s spending and extravagance, Jackie was reassuring.

  “Of course,” he said, “there’s a certain amount of talk, but I wouldn’t take it too seriously. You see, your father has a certain position, Charley, and if you have a position no one talks so much.” Jackie frowned and patted his yellow hair carefully. He was always worried for fear his hair would not stay in place. “Now if Mr. Sullivan or Mr. Levine put a hundred-dollar bill in the contribution box, it would be different. It would be different with my father, or me too, Charley, because, well, my grandfather was a druggist and your grandfather was a judge. That gives position, and if you have it you can be more eccentric, Charley. It’s the same way with you. You have more position than I have. Let’s admit it.”

  Jackie Mason was looking at him wistfully, as though their positions were far apart already and as though he felt privileged that they were still friends. Charles wanted to tell Jackie to stop, that they were just the same as they ever were, that they had lived next door to each other and had known each other all their lives, but before he could speak Jackie was going on.