Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Times have changed,” one girl remarked pertly.

  “So they have, Miss Gradz, and for the worse. No one wants to work anymore, or earn an honest dollar.” Her stare at the younger girls was daunting. They hated and resented her, but they gave her grudging respect.

  Daniel said, “You’ve never told Jason that you put him on the deed to that thousand acres, have you, Uncle Pat?”

  “No. That was the agreement between you and me, Danny. I did tell him I’d left it to him in my will.”

  “And I told you that was redundant. He’s on the deed, and that’s more than enough. Right of survivor, of course. Well, that’s a safeguard for you, I must admit, if the unforseen should happen and he predeceases you, which isn’t likely. I explained to you at the time you put him on the deed that you couldn’t sell, later, without his signature and agreement. It does put you in an awkward position, though, if you wanted to sell and he balked.”

  “Why should he, in the name of saints? He’s married to my daughter; he’s like a son to me. Jase would never oppose me in a simple sale, if we decided not to build on it ourselves. I did buy it for speculation, though.”

  “I heard a rumor that Schofield bought the adjoining thousand acres.”

  “No! Did he, then?” Patrick sat up in his chair. “I wonder why. There’s a scoundrel if there ever was one!”

  “It’s just a rumor. Schultz told me last week. And Schultz also told me that Schofield’s sniffing around to find out who owns the other thousand acres—which we own, or rather, you and Jason own.”

  Patrick smiled widely and rubbed his thumb against his index finger. “But we made sure the owner’s name wouldn’t get out, didn’t we? No use letting the banks in this town get a whiff of that news; they’d be crying over our notes they hold. Calling me reckless, and such, taking on another big mortgage. Well, my da always said land is the only security.”

  “Even with mortgages up to your … crotch, Uncle Pat.”

  “Ha,” said Patrick, “higher than that, bucko, higher than that. And once I was so damned careful and never owed a penny. Land fever.” He considered. “Wonder what Schofield is doing away out there. He speculates, they tell me. I’ve tried to get some idea about him from Sunderland and the other banks, but they said they didn’t know what he does, and it was none of their business.”

  “Which means it is,” said Daniel, and frowned at his cigar. “When a banker pretends indifference, you can be sure he’s got his finger in the pie, too. But what pie? Nothing in Belleville, I’ve heard, or not as yet. An interesting situation.… Where’s Jason, by the way? He’s fifteen minutes late.” Daniel paused. “We don’t even know if Schofield really owns those other acres.”

  Jason was entering the outer office, where Molly was still sternly examining what had been done the past week in the files. He burst into the room, and Molly looked up, startled at the crash, and then her fine skin flushed. Her eyes opened wide, her hands trembled slightly, and all at once her sensible clear-featured face was tremulous. “Hello, Jason,” she said.

  “Hello,” he said shortly. He often encountered Molly here, and considered her a “busybody.” “Daniel and Mr. Mulligan here?”

  Molly nodded. Jason was about to pass her abruptly, and then, for some mysterious reason, he halted and turned to her again. They looked at each other in a sharp silence broken only by the fast rattle of the two typewriters.

  Molly certainly wasn’t stylish. Her shapeless brown suit was obviously out-of-date; the skirt was wide and unfashionably low, and her blouse with its plain white jabot looked wilted and tired. Her hair was not arranged in the present Irene Castle fashion, which simulated, without cutting, the dancer’s “bob.” Patricia wore it that way. Molly’s brilliantly red hair, shining and fiery in the sunlight, was severely braided, then wound on top of her small head like a coronet. But her eyes, Jason noted, seemed filled with a radiant light.

  Patricia’s contemptuous words of last night returned to Jason. “She’s in love with you and always was!” It was as if the words were freshly spoken, and Jason’s first reaction was amusement. Molly Nolan, now Mrs. Dugan. Molly. And then: Molly!—incredulously. He could only stare, as if seeing her for the first time. She did not move, yet her eyes appeared to come closer, flashing like sunlit gold.

  It’s ridiculous, thought Jason, feeling suddenly confused. Molly Nolan, pigtailed Molly Nolan with the sharp tongue—the same little girl I knew and disliked all my life. Never a sweet word or a sweet smile. Just … Molly, who disliked me as much as I disliked her and was always underfoot, visiting Joan, helping Joan with her lessons. Why?

  Jason saw something now that he had never seen before—that Molly was beautiful, that she had a “good” face without guile or trivial meanness, that her figure, even under those deplorable old clothes, had curved and lissome lines, and that her hands, wearing only a plain wedding ring, were soft and white, yet eminently capable. They were useful hands, deft and quick.

  The clattering typewriters invaded Jason’s ears almost painfully. He came to himself and felt a line of dampness over his long Irish lip. He said, “They’re here?” Molly nodded again. Now she was smiling, and her steady lips were shaking a little. It was a smile Jason had never seen before, full of womanly emotion and sweetness. He turned quickly and went to the other office’s door, opened it, then shut it behind him.

  Molly leaned weakly against the files, and her heart was jumping. Something like ecstasy flowed over her. She felt drunk and did not know why. She only knew that something had passed between her and Jason, with soaring sparks.

  Patrick and Daniel looked up when Jason exploded into the office, a most unusual entrance for the customarily quiet and deliberate young man. Even on this hot day he wore his mourning uniform of thick black wool, and he looked rumpled and ominous. Patrick was in shirtsleeves, Daniel cool and well-tailored in a light tan Palm Beach suit with a brown-and-white-striped shirt fresh from the iron. Every brown hair was in place, and his florid face was calm. Both men smiled at Jason, though somewhat warily. Jason, Daniel now often said, “could be difficult at times,” and unbending when a matter of principle was involved.

  “Well,” said Patrick, “and a good morning to you, bucko, and here we are, as you asked, and waiting.” Daniel nodded pleasantly, and relit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. Jason flung himself down in another chair, glaring. “It’s a long story,” he said with abruptness, and plunged into it. The two other men listened in attentive silence. He was not one to gesture, but now he gestured vehemently, and his fists were clenched. Then he was finished, and he coughed stridently, catching his breath.

  Patrick and Daniel regarded each other significantly. Patrick’s full cheeks had turned crimson; Daniel’s eyes were full of meaning. “Well, well,” said Patrick in a genial tone, “so now we have a little idea of what Schofield does, then. A gambler. A chance-taker. Something like you, Jase.”

  Jason was aghast and freshly enraged. “Me?” he shouted: “Me?”

  Patrick nodded happily. “Yes, like you, bucko. Look what you did with Ipswich House and the other hotel we are building. Chances, and me crying in my breakfast porridge over it all. But you were right, even if we are up to … well, our necks in debt.”

  “You’re putting me in the same class with that thief?”

  “Now,” said Daniel, “who says he is a thief? Where’s your proof, Jason?”

  Jason turned to him suddenly, his chronic dislike plain in his face. “There’s something about him, dammit! I have an instinct about such men. But that’s not the only thing. It’s the sort of hotel he wants to build, with investors’ money. A big, luxurious whorehouse.”

  Daniel said softly, “Oh, my God.”

  Patrick was undisturbed, but now his bright blue eyes sharpened. He said, “Jason, my boyo, when did God set you up as a censor on the morals of other people? Wait a minute, please. What has it to do with you? Sure and it has, you’ve as much as said. Because of the land I’v
e left you in my will, next to his land?”

  Jason turned red with frustration. “You don’t understand, Mr. Mulligan. I—we—intend, I hope, to build still another hotel on that land. Think what having such an unsavory place next door will do to the value of our land.”

  Patrick’s usually good-tempered face became hard and cynical. He lifted a plump pink hand. “Listen to me, Jase. Sin doesn’t only pay, but it pays handsomely. Never let the priests tell you different. Crime flourishes because it pays high interest and is solvent. I could tell you many tales of the rascals in New-York, in politics and such, who have fine mansions on Fifth Avenue with fleets of servants and yachts and gold and jewelry and wives above reproach. They are respected by senators and presidents and honored everywhere, with eulogies in their churches when they die. How did they make their money? By honest dealing, then? By going to Mass on Sunday and supporting orphans and widows and feeding the poor, and such? Is that why they are honored? No, boyo, no. And many they are who own expensive brothels into the bargain, and they are the protectors of chorus girls and beautiful whores. Many of those fine gentlemen, Jase, made their money by cheating the people out of public funds, selling rotten stone for buildings, and financing dangerous trains. Does anyone despise them, then? Look at Tammany Hall, for instance …” He paused, shook his head admonishingly. “Jason, how old are you? A grown man, and you know no more of the world than a baby in his nappies.”

  Jason’s rage only increased. He tried to keep from shouting as he said, “Your property, Mr. Mulligan! It won’t be worth a damn with Schofield’s hotel next to it.”

  “I disagree,” said Daniel. “As Uncle Pat has tried to tell you, it will increase the value. But land value isn’t exactly what you have in mind, is it?”

  Jason knew he was being made to look like a fool, and this infuriated him even more. “No,” he said. “But Schofield—he makes me sick, sick to death. He … he tried to buy me; his offer of an investment was just an excuse.”

  “Well,” said Patrick, “he appreciates a good man when he sees him, and you ought to be flattered, Jase. Now, now. Calm down a minute.”

  Jason almost yelled, “He wants me as a front for his disgusting proposition! That’s all! I didn’t think that before, but now I see it. The hell with him. I can’t understand your position, Mr. Mulligan, I can’t.”

  Patrick leaned toward him, and his face was one Jason had never seen before; it was tight and knowing and not too kind. “Laddie, you know that not all of our guests are nice virtuous married folk. You’ve known that for years.”

  “But we don’t blatantly advertise that illicit couples are particularly invited! We don’t imply we’re running a brothel! If we have to shut our eyes to some … things, well, as you once said, Mr. Mulligan, ‘that’s business.’” Jason’s voice had become bitter. “I don’t like it, I never did. I’m not a seminarian, Mr. Mulligan. I do know something of the world. I know we can’t demand that every couple who comes to Ipswich House show us a marriage certificate, dammit! But we do try to run a decent place, and that’s why we have a good guest list of respectable people, mainly. But literally to advertise—”

  “You mean ‘implying,’ not ‘advertising,’ Jason,” said Daniel. “Not even Schofield would be so blatant.”

  Jason gave him a scathing glance. “He isn’t actually going to advertise what the place will be in the newspapers! He’ll just spread the word! I accused him, and he never denied it. Word of mouth is almost as good as advertising outright.”

  “Who knows?” said Daniel, and shrugged and looked at his uncle.

  Patrick said, “You’re not as white as snow yourself, Jase. You visited Mrs. Lindon’s establishment before you married my daughter. And you’ve visited there since, I hear. Now, now. Let me finish. I know that Patricia’s delicate, always was. I know it would kill her to have more children. I don’t condemn you, laddie, not at all. Men are men, and women are women. But you’re not one to sit in judgment, either.”

  Jason had become very pale.

  “I’d rather see you in some nice clean place like Mrs. Lindon’s than killing my daughter, making her have more children. I know you love my colleen, and you’re sparing her. It’s glad I am you are, Jason. You’re a considerate husband, not a bad one. And how many men do you think are like you? If you blame anyone, I’m thinking you should blame nature, who did it all. It’s not of our choosing.”

  Jason said, “And it’s nature that makes us shit, too, but we do it privately, not publicly with music and fanfare, and special decorations and sports and banquets.”

  Patrick smiled. “It’s not the same kind of pleasure, Jase.”

  Jason’s fists clenched again; he was still pale. “Have you given a thought, Mr. Mulligan, to the young girls who will be involved in all this?”

  “Jase,” said Patrick, “no one forces any girl into what is called a ‘life of sin.’ Never mind the tales of white slavers. That’s very rare. A girl chooses her life. I doubt that Schofield’s hotel will be filled with streetwalkers and sluts and cheap whores. Men who go there will be rich enough to afford the best. Naughty ladies, no doubt, but beautiful and stylish ones. Like many who come to the Inn-Tavern and Ipswich House.” His eyes narrowed on Jason, and they were not too friendly, and Jason felt something close to despair.

  “Ladies such as Uncle Pat mentions usually retire on rich estates,” said Daniel, smiling. “They’re not innocent country girls. They’re seasoned courtesans. Don’t break your heart over them, Jason. Many are well-paid actresses and chorus girls. The Florodora sextet did very richly for themselves. I’ve seen many of them in splendid Cadillacs on Fifth Avenue. They also live in little mansions, with servants, and travel abroad, after their ‘retirement.’ Some have famous shops, exclusive restaurants, or own jewelry stores. Some even married wealthy men.”

  “I see I’m getting nowhere,” said Jason.

  “What I am interested in,” said Patrick, “is, has he any idea who owns my thousand acres?”

  Jason felt very tired. After all, he had not slept all night. “I don’t think so,” he said in a dull voice. “But he’ll find out. And that’s why I want to see you, sir, to ask you not to sell to him if he offers.”

  “He won’t find out,” said Patrick. He paused. “Did he hint how much he would pay?”

  “No.” Jason saw a deep look being exchanged between uncle and nephew and felt sicker than ever. “Think,” Patrick mused to Daniel. “A thousand dollars an acre.” He pulled a paper toward him, and a pencil. He figured. Then he whistled. “Damn,” he said.

  “We could ask more. He probably wants it badly enough,” said Daniel.

  “We could pay off the mortgage on Ipswich House and finish the new hotel! And more!”

  Jason said, “Have you thought what will happen if he won’t buy, at your price, Mr. Mulligan? We couldn’t build a respectable hotel next to his.”

  “He’ll buy,” said Daniel. “I say at least fifteen hundred dollars an acre. It’s choice property. I’ll look into it at once.”

  Jason stood up. His eyes were sore with sleeplessness. He turned slowly, defeated. He saw Molly near the door, and started. How long had she been there, unnoticed? Her eyes encountered his, and her face was both compassionate and understanding. He wanted to go to her and hold her. The longing was like a terrible hunger in him; it was a desire for a refuge in a strange and alien land, a desire for love and companionship and surcease.

  But as he went toward the door, she moved aside, though she did not look away from him. He left the office. The two men and Molly watched him go. Then Daniel said coldly, “I knew it was wrong of you, Uncle Pat, to put him on the deed. He’ll never agree.”

  “There are ways,” said Patrick, and thought of his daughter, who loved money even more than she did her children. Patricia was a sensible girl. For a considerable time now, Patrick had been aware of Patricia’s shrewdness, a trait he had not known earlier in her life. He was quite pleased.

  Li
onel whistled through his teeth when Jason’s secretary handed him a peremptory note from Jason. “Come to my office immediately.” Well, well, thought Lionel. He never wrote to me like that before. Lionel’s keen mind became sharpened. So, old Jason was going to “take him down” because of Schofield last night. Lionel did not smile. Jason was not only manager of Ipswich House but also son-in-law of the owner. For the first time Lionel lost his confidence in the profound friendship between himself and Jason. Still, he was married to Jason’s sister. Jason would not hurt his brother-in-law for fear of hurting Joan, so Lionel was a trifle more encouraged as he stood up and put on his jacket. He remembered everything that had been said in his house last night and prepared rebuttals. However, a strong uneasiness remained with him as he adjusted his tie and smoothed his cuffs. He recalled what Joan always told him: “It is shameful that you are subordinate to my brother, who is such a grim fool and hasn’t half your brains, my darling. In fact, he plucks your brains. I know. What would he do without you? He’s used you all your lives. You have the intelligence, not he. It’s shameful. Sometimes I can’t bear it.”

  Lionel had at first laughed, knowing the truth. But lately he had started to listen to Joan. He had initially believed she spoke only out of her love for him. But insidiously his dissatisfaction had started to grow. He was no longer willing to “just plug along.” Besides, he had gone into debt to please and pamper Joan, to give her what she deserved. He had not done it lightly, but he had done it, even though it had assaulted his Celtic nature. The Irish avoided debt like the plague, for they had long memories, he would think to himself. He had put all his money into Schofield’s scheme. Though he was optimistic by nature, he was also prudent. He had many wakeful hours worrying about that twenty thousand dollars saved so painfully.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to face Jason—Jason, whom he had never feared before; Jason, who had suddenly become formidable. Lionel remembered the long-ago episode of the gold piece Jason had rejected on his fourteenth birthday, money desperately needed by himself and his family. Principle! There were more men of principle in the county poor farm than there were villains or fools.