Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  “Making what you’ve got on hand do what it isn’t meant to do,” Mr. Wayde said.

  “Wine, sir?” Selwyn asked him. “Or Scotch and soda?”

  “Whisky,” Mr. Wayde said, “and water. Did you ever know Mr. Harrod Cash, ma’am, out in Denver?”

  “No,” Mrs. Blood answered, “I don’t know Mr. Cash.”

  “No reason why you should, I suppose,” Mr. Wayde said, “except Harrod—you get to first names fast in Denver, ma’am—he gave me a letter to your brother when I got through at Whetstone. Harrod was always strong for Harcourt belting.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Blood said, “but what’s Whetstone?”

  “The Whetstone Mine, the best silver and lead property in the Rockies, ma’am. I was working in the mill when water came in and flooded number seven and six levels. You never can tell where water is inside a mountain, and that’s a fact.”

  “Alf is absent-minded about a lot of things,” Willis heard his mother saying, “but never about machinery.”

  “I’ve noticed that myself,” Mr. Harcourt said. “He’s a great comfort to me at the mill. You see, I haven’t a mechanical, only a business, mind.”

  “Some people think Alf is lazy,” Mrs. Wayde said. “When I first met Alf, I thought he was. It was at a dancing party at the Y.W.C.A. in Topeka.”

  Mr. Harcourt’s lower lip twitched and then he smiled.

  “I’d like to know,” he said, “how he ever got to the Y.W.C.A. in Topeka.”

  “Oh, a contracting firm was building some water works,” Mrs. Wayde said, “and some of the young fellows on the job came to the dance. I guess Alf went because he’d lost all his money at poker the night before. I was teaching in the high school and living at the ‘Y,’ and my sister Nell and I invited him out to the farm on Sunday with another fellow. He just sat on the piazza with his feet on the rail until the windmill broke down and we were out of water.”

  Mr. Harcourt’s lower lip twitched, but he did not speak.

  “Well, Alf got right up off the porch and climbed up the windmill. I get dizzy when I look down from a height, don’t you, Mr. Harcourt?”

  “Always,” Mr. Harcourt said, “always.”

  “You see, Alf doesn’t notice where he is, if his mind is on something. I don’t believe he knows where he is right now.”

  They both glanced across the table at Alfred Wayde.

  “No, ma’am,” Willis heard his father say to Mrs. Blood, “I’m not a mining engineer, but anyone learns something about rocks when he handles dynamite.”

  “Well, Alf came down with a broken cog or something,” Mrs. Wayde said, “and asked where a blacksmith shop was. I said I’d take him down to Sawyer’s and we hitched up the buckboard. Ned Sawyer’s a Baptist and doesn’t work Sundays, but Alf started up the forge himself, and he made a whole new cogwheel right by hand. It took him six hours and he was a sight when he got through, but he got the windmill going.”

  “Did you say you play bridge, Mr. Wayde?” Mrs. Blood was saying.

  “Yes, ma’am, sometimes,” Alfred Wayde answered, “but Cynthia would rather talk.”

  And Mrs. Wayde still was talking.

  “If Alf’s interested, he can do anything, but when he loses interest he drifts away to somewhere else. I hope you can keep him interested. With Willis growing up he ought to go to school regularly. I can’t go on teaching him much longer. I hope Alf will like it here and I hope you’ll like him, Mr. Harcourt.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have let him have the cottage, Mrs. Wayde,” Mr. Harcourt said.

  “Now you’ve mentioned it,” Mrs. Wayde said, “it isn’t right charging us so little rent, but maybe Alfred got the figure wrong.”

  Mr. Harcourt placed his napkin on the table.

  “It’s business, Mrs. Wayde,” he said. “Not that I won’t be glad to look across the lawn at night and see lights in the cottage. It’s to my advantage to have you and your husband contented.”

  His flat measured voice left no room for argument.

  “There are difficulties in running any business. My son Bryson, whom I hope you’ll meet later, will take over eventually, but in the meanwhile when the windmill breaks I have to fix it in my own way. Tomorrow I want to talk to you about sending Willis to school, and if there’s anything you need, please ask me, Mrs. Wayde.”

  Willis saw his mother gaze blankly at Mr. Harcourt.

  “I’m glad if you appreciate Alf,” she said. “A lot of his bosses haven’t. All I can say is thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Mr. Harcourt said. He pushed back his chair. “Alfred.”

  “A small explosive charge is better than a big one,” Alfred Wayde was saying, “if you’re familiar with the conditions, ma’am. Too much power always is a waste.”

  “Alfred,” Mr. Harcourt said again, and Alfred Wayde looked up. “You and I might have our brandy and coffee in the library, and Willis can come with us.”

  “I ought to get back to unpack,” Mrs. Wayde said, looking at Mrs. Blood. “Willis can take me home.”

  They had all risen from the table, and Mr. Harcourt smiled at Mrs. Blood.

  “It’s early still,” he said. “Ruth, please induce Mrs. Wayde to stay a little longer. You haven’t had an opportunity yet to make her feel at home.”

  “Yes, Henry,” Mrs. Blood said. “Please don’t leave me alone, Mrs. Wayde.”

  As Willis followed Mr. Harcourt and his father into the hall, he heard Mrs. Blood speak again.

  “Every time I visit my brother,” she was saying, “he reminds me more and more of our father. When he speaks in that tone of voice, it’s always best to do exactly what he says.”

  Willis still knew nothing about the Harcourt Mill, but he was already aware of its pervading influence. Ever since he had passed those stark brick buildings that afternoon, their aura had surrounded him. The mill had been with them in the dining room, and it was with them even more obviously in the library. It was a living organism—any factory always was. Mr. Harcourt was its brain and motivating force, but Mr. Harcourt himself was only a part of it, and Alfred Wayde was also part of it, and in consequence so was Willis. Even Mrs. Blood belonged to it. Her pearl necklace and her rings came from the mill, and the same was true of the food that they had eaten. Willis could think of the leather-backed books of the library and its black leather easy chairs and sofa and all its walnut paneling as coming from the mill.

  His father followed Mr. Harcourt into the library, walking with his unconsciously careful step, gazing curiously at the books and the moose head over the mantel.

  “Sit down,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Sit down, Willis. Will you have a cigar, Alfred?”

  “Thanks,” Alfed Wayde said, “I could do with a cigar.”

  “It’s funny,” Mr. Harcourt said, “how few young fellows like you care for a good cigar. I’ll get one in my study.”

  He walked through a narrow doorway, and Willis and his father were alone for a moment in the cool softly lighted room. Alfred Wayde lowered himself into one of the heavy leather chairs.

  “How’s it going, boy?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Willis answered.

  “Well, take your weight off your feet. This certainly is a soft seat. Different from Klamath Falls, isn’t it, boy?”

  Willis felt a strong desire to laugh. His father could always make him laugh if he put his mind to it.

  “Just take it easy,” Alfred Wayde said. “Always take it easy.” But they both stood up when Mr. Harcourt came back.

  “Here,” Mr. Harcourt said, “this is a good light Havana. There’s a cutter on the table.”

  “No need for a cutter, thanks,” Alfred Wayde said. He pinched off the end of his cigar and Selwyn came in with a tray of after-dinner coffee and brandy.

  “Did everything go all right in Building Three today?” Mr. Harcourt asked.

  “It’s pretty well cleared out,” Alfred Wayde said. “We’re going to need some new construction under th
e vats and a new compressor.”

  “All right,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I’d like to see those blueprints tomorrow morning if they’re ready.”

  “They’re ready,” Alfred Wayde answered.

  “Good!” Mr. Harcourt said. “I should have looked at Number Three myself today, but things were pretty busy in the office. I had Decker in and the lawyers were down from Boston.” Mr. Harcourt flicked the ash of his cigar carefully into a brass tray on the table beside him.

  “I’m buying those Klaus patents. Bryson isn’t going to like it, but I’m going ahead.”

  Willis’s father nodded slowly, without moving his glance from Mr. Harcourt’s face.

  “You’re not going to miss any boats if you do,” he said.

  Mr. Harcourt sat still for a moment.

  “It’s difficult when you get to be my age,” he said, “to branch into new ideas. Well, Bryson isn’t going to like it.”

  “You won’t miss any boats,” Alfred Wayde said again. “You’ve got to get into conveyor belting, and the Klaus patents will put you on the ground floor. You won’t ever be the Goodrich Rubber Company, but you’ll have a process no one else owns.”

  “I hope so,” Mr. Harcourt said. “We’ll have a business talk tomorrow, but let’s talk about Willis now. His mother was asking about what he will do for school.”

  “Oh,” Alfred Wayde said. “Yes, Cynthia wants me to stay put somewhere until Willis gets to college.”

  Willis never forgot that scrap of conversation about the conveyor belts. Later, when he was able to understand its significance, he understood why they were living in the garden house. If it had not been for the Klaus patents, the mill would have lost business all through the twenties and would not have survived the depression, and it was his father who had advised the purchase.

  Selwyn tapped softly on the open door of the library.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bryson Harcourt are with the ladies in the drawing room,” he said.

  The long drawing room with its tall French windows looked over the south terrace. If it represented the late Victorian period of decoration, all its furnishings, down to the useless articles that cluttered the tables, possessed their peculiar relationship. Its two crystal chandeliers from England, its mantel of Italian marble, its groups of chairs and sofas, and its ornate lamps—now converted from kerosene to electricity—were cumbersome taken by themselves, but they all added a personal quality to the room. Somehow they reminded you of the people who had gathered about the grand piano and had walked over the huge wine-colored carpet, which was growing worn. It was one of those rooms that could never be imitated. Even if Willis could have gained possession of all the room’s furniture, it would never have been possible to have arranged those component parts into the pattern he remembered. And the people standing near the fireplace, even down to his mother and father, were part of the pattern.

  “Mildred,” Mr. Harcourt said, “you haven’t met Willis Wayde yet, have you? Willis, this is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Harcourt, and Mr. Harcourt. I’m sorry you didn’t bring the children over, Mildred.”

  He spoke as though Willis were a grown-up guest, but then his manner always was the same with everyone. He had been born with that sort of inner assurance you could never pick up from any book of etiquette.

  “Happy to meet you, ma’am,” Willis said, and he could hear his own voice from that past balanced awkwardly between childhood and adolescence.

  If Mrs. Bryson Harcourt did not look entirely happy to meet him, nevertheless she managed to smile. She was tall and angular in her green silk dress, taller than her husband.

  “How do you do?” she said to Willis, and gave his hand a strong quick shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring Bill and Bess over, Governor. I just didn’t think about it.”

  She always called Mr. Henry Harcourt “Governor.”

  “Hello, young fellow,” Mr. Bryson Harcourt said. In many ways he was a picture of what Mr. Henry Harcourt must have been when he was younger. His clean-shaven face was tanned and he had a trace of the Harcourt lower lip, but his features always seemed less in focus than his father’s.

  “We can only stay for a minute, Governor,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “We just stopped over to see how you were.”

  “I’m bearing up, Mildred,” Mr. Harcourt said. “We had Decker and the lawyers over at the mill today, Bryson.”

  “I was at Marblehead racing,” Mr. Bryson said.

  “Of course,” Mr. Harcourt answered. “I should have remembered. How did you come out, Bryson?”

  “Third,” Mrs. Bryson said. “Almost second, Governor.”

  “Mildred always hates to lose,” Mr. Bryson said.

  “Of course I do,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “Married couples never ought to sail in the same boat. Bryson, didn’t you tell the Governor you weren’t coming in today?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” Mr. Harcourt said, “but see me the first thing tomorrow, won’t you, Bryson?”

  “All right, Father,” Bryson said. “It must have been a hot day for traveling, Mrs. Wayde. I hope everything in the cottage is all right. I wanted to add on to it when we were married but Mildred wanted to build.”

  “I was right, wasn’t I, Governor?” Mrs. Harcourt said.

  “Of course Mildred was right,” Mrs. Blood said. “A larger house would not have looked well across the lawn.”

  Those brief snatches of dialogue were a part of the façade with which the Harcourts always contrived to surround themselves. There was good nature and affection in the words and even humor, without a trace of strain and no undertone of disappointment. Only time and perspective lent significance and sadness to anything that was said. It was only after Willis knew what the Klaus patents meant that he recalled that Bryson Harcourt had been racing at Marblehead on the day they were purchased. There had not been a trace of anger and not a hint of sorrow. The truth was that the Harcourts were all too fond of each other and knew each other too well to betray obvious emotion. Something must have been said, of course. Willis often wondered what words the father and son had spoken when they met in the mill the next morning, but no one had ever heard that conversation and neither of them ever mentioned it.

  His mother was the only one who noticed anything at the time. When they were walking home across the lawn to the cottage, she was the first one who spoke.

  “Alf,” she said, “they’re not our kind of people.”

  “How do you mean, not our kind of people?” his father asked.

  The lawn, Willis was thinking, resembled the heavy carpets in the Harcourt hall.

  “They’re not our kind of people,” his mother said again. “Alf, you never notice people.”

  “My God, Cynthia,” Alfred Wayde said. “They were just talking, weren’t they?”

  “There was something that made Mr. Harcourt angry,” Willis’s mother said.

  “Who? Old Harcourt? He didn’t act angry.”

  “I know he didn’t. That’s why I say they’re not our kind of people.”

  “Well,” Alfred Wayde said, “we got a good feed out of it, and you didn’t have to cook it.”

  “Alf,” his mother said, “there’s one thing I don’t like.”

  “What don’t you like?” his father asked.

  “Somehow he makes me feel we’re all living here, Alf, on charity.”

  “Charity?” Alfred Wayde said, and he laughed. “Don’t you believe it, Cynthia. I’m earning everything we get.”

  His mother’s voice grew sharp. Willis could not see her face, but he knew that her lips were closed in a tight, disapproving line.

  “Then why doesn’t he pay you cash instead of giving us things?” she asked.

  It was a good question and his father must have known it.

  “Because he would rather give than pay,” he said. “It makes some people feel better—giving than paying.”

  That answer of his father’s was one of the wisest things that Willis ever heard him say about people. M
r. Henry Harcourt had to be the center of the Harcourt world, and he was a very good one, too, until he died.

  Willis often thought that there was always a greater change when darkness gathered over the Harcourt place than there was anywhere else. The darkness was like a rising tide that covered the gardens and the houses, erasing everything as a still sea erased footprints on a beach. The sound of the night, the incessant calling of the crickets, assuming an intensity that never rose or diminished, covered all vanity and striving. A greater, more mysterious world, one that cared nothing for minutiae, covered the world of the Harcourts. In no other place he knew did he have such a strong feeling that small things did not matter, including his own ambitions, as when night engulfed the Harcourt place.

  It was always different in the morning, when the mist and the damp of night rolled back before the sun. The complicated values returned with daylight. Willis was awakened the next morning by the whistle from the mill, which always blew at seven. He heard the thump of his father’s feet on the floor of the bedroom across the upstairs hall, and then he heard his mother calling him to get up and start the fire in the kitchen. They were all following the familiar routine which had been created by other whistles in other places.

  “What am I going to do if you take the Ford, Alf?” his mother asked. “I’ve got to get downtown and buy some groceries.”

  Alfred Wayde looked up vaguely from his coffee.

  “Someone from the other house will be going,” he said. “Call up and ask. They’ll give you a ride to town.”

  “No,” his mother said, “I don’t want to be obligated, Alf.”

  “All right,” his father said. “I’ll be back at five and drive you over.”

  She said she wanted to get the feel of everything in the house and she could only do that when she was alone. She told Willis to go out and walk around and get used to the lay of the land, and keep away from the big house and not bother anyone.

  It was quite a walk that Willis took that morning. The dew was still over everything and there was a smell of fresh-cut grass, where two men were working on the lawn with hand-mowers.

  When he walked down the road to the stables, the routine of the place was already starting. Two more men were working in the kitchen garden and another was trimming shrubbery. A stoop-shouldered man with a blank and patient face was spraying roses in the cutting garden and talking to himself.