Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  Mr. Harcourt was silent for a moment, and then he looked at the two portraits on the wall, and then his glance moved to Willis. He could not tell whether Mr. Harcourt was thinking of him or of something else, until his glance grew sharper.

  “It’s his business to ask questions,” Mr. Harcourt said. “What did you think of him, Willis?”

  “I never saw anyone just like him,” Willis said, “but I guess he knows what he’s doing. Anyway he knew who made the tall clock in the hall.”

  Mr. Harcourt’s lower lip twitched and he touched it lightly with his forefinger.

  “Showing off,” he said. “I wouldn’t say it was necessary. When he was on the subject of antiques, did he ask about me, Willis?”

  “Yes, sir, he did,” Willis said, “and I didn’t like it much.”

  “Never mind what you like,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Just tell me what he asked.”

  Willis was standing in front of Mr. Harcourt’s desk because Mr. Harcourt had not asked him to sit down, and he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “He wanted to know how good I thought you were.”

  “Well, well,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Those people are always showing off. I’m better than he is, Willis—at least I think I am. I wonder if he offered you a job.”

  “He spoke about it, sir,” Willis said.

  “Well, I’d have done the same thing myself,” Mr. Harcourt said, “and I suppose he knows how much I’m paying you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis said. “You told me to tell him everything.”

  Mr. Harcourt leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “I know I did,” he said. “You see, Mr. McKitterick and I understand each other, Willis. He’s here on a consulting fee of a thousand dollars a week, and I think he’s going to be worth it. The next time you see him I wish you’d let him know I told you how much I’m paying him.”

  “Why, sir?” Willis asked.

  Mr. Harcourt smiled.

  “Because I’d like him to know where you stand with me,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I’d like him to know I don’t have to buy you, Willis.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward and he looked younger than he had all day. “I’m glad you’ve had a chance to see Mr. McKitterick. You made quite an impression on him.”

  That last remark of Mr. Harcourt’s made Willis realize that Mr. McKitterick had been asked to make a report on him among his other reports.

  “I thought you knew me well enough yourself, sir,” he said, “not to need anything like that.”

  Mr. Harcourt raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “Anything like what?” he asked.

  Willis looked straight back at him. He was glad to remember that he respected but that he had never been afraid of Mr. Harcourt.

  “I mean you didn’t need to have anyone check on me,” he said.

  Mr. Harcourt nodded slowly.

  “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I didn’t know you were learning so fast. I hadn’t thought the idea would occur to you.”

  Mr. Harcourt paused, but Willis did not speak, because it seemed to him that it was better not to say too much.

  “I’m making no apology. Do you understand?” Mr. Harcourt said.

  “Yes,” Willis said. “I wouldn’t have expected you to apologize.”

  He felt a strange elation when he spoke. Just then he was on equal terms with Mr. Harcourt, and all sorts of inhibitions evaporated. It would not have been like that a year ago. Mr. Harcourt picked up a pencil and tapped it gently on his desk.

  “Some day when you have people working for you,” he said, “you’ll find they’re quite an investment, in time and money and trouble. It’s always wise to have a confirmation of your personal judgments, if you can get one. For instance, I always have an expert check my securities, although I think I’m a rather good investor. Of course I had Mr. McKitterick check on you. It’s what he’s here for.”

  Mr. Harcourt paused and tapped again on his desk with his pencil, but this sound was lost in the noise of the mill outside. They were both a part of that machinery, and you could never be wholly yourself when you were working for a company. You had to share some of the relentlessness of the machinery.

  “I don’t believe in flattery,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I will say, though, that I think you have quality, and I like quality, even if I don’t know exactly what it means. You’re going to amount to something. I don’t know exactly what, because everyone has defects.”

  Mr. Harcourt looked at the two portraits on the wall. Perhaps he was thinking that he too would be hanging on that wall some day beside his father and his grandfather.

  “That’s right,” he said, “don’t interrupt me, Willis. Perhaps I’m growing garrulous, but I won’t keep you standing there much longer. Most people who work for you are commodities, up to a certain point. Mr. McKitterick is a very able man, but I can buy everything he has to offer because brains are always for sale. Mr. Decker is a commodity. He charges me a legal fee. But there are other people in a different category, and you can’t buy them with money. I’ll tell you something, Willis, but don’t let it spoil you.”

  Mr. Harcourt stood up abruptly and walked slowly around the desk.

  “You and I aren’t in the same age group,” he said, “but we’re head and shoulders above anyone else around here, Willis—at least in a business way. I can’t buy you with money.”

  Willis cleared his throat. It was curious that he had felt no surprise. “You’ve bought me already,” he said. “I guess you know it, sir.”

  “I got you rather cheap,” Mr. Harcourt said. “I wouldn’t like to have to buy you later on.”

  IX

  In April of his last year in the Harvard Business School, Willis had felt older than most of his contemporaries. Only a very few of them knew as much as he about the practical side of manufacturing and not many of them had his head for figures or his ability to visualize tables of organization. Yet you could not grow up all at once and be mature in every department. He was still absurdly young and Bess Harcourt was too, when he called her up in April, 1929.

  He called her from a pay telephone in a Harvard Square drugstore and he remembered standing in the constricted booth in the back of the store and looking out on a display of soaps and cosmetics as he gave the number.

  “Hello,” he said to the maid who answered. “Is Miss Harcourt at home? This is Mr. Willis Wayde.”

  He waited, rehearsing exactly what he was going to say, until he heard Bess Harcourt’s voice.

  “Hello, Bess,” he said. “How are you? It’s been a long while since I’ve seen you.”

  “I know,” she answered. “It’s been simply ages, Willis. Why haven’t you been around?”

  “Well,” he said, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d have time to see me.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Willis.” Her voice sounded light and warm. “You know I’d love to see you.”

  “Bill says you’re pretty busy,” he told her, and then he heard her laugh.

  “I’m never as busy as Bill,” she said.

  “Well, what are you doing Friday night?” he asked her.

  There was a pause, and pauses always meant more over the telephone than anywhere else.

  “Let’s see. Why, I’m not doing anything Friday night.”

  Willis drew a deep breath, but he did his best to sound casual.

  “I hear there’s a good musical show at the Colonial,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’ve seen it or not.”

  “Why, no,” she said, “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Well then we might go to it,” Willis said, “and have dinner somewhere first—say at the Ritz.”

  “Why, Willis. At the Ritz?” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked. “What’s the matter with the Ritz?”

  There was another slight pause.

  “Why, Willis,” she said, “I think it’s awfully sweet of you. I think it would be lovely. What time?”

  “I’ll c
all for you at a quarter before seven,” he said. “Now don’t forget.”

  “Why, Willis,” she said, “of course I won’t forget.”

  Often when he thought of that Friday evening he also thought of the vast succession of later times when he had entertained socially in business, either on an expense account or as a deductible item from his income tax. Willis was at home now with the headwaiters and the captains. He knew just when to bestow a firm glance and the exact psychological moment to hand out a bill accompanied by a friendly handclasp, and he could say without any effort whatsoever, “Good evening, Louis. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you,” or else he could say if he did not know the place, “Captain, can’t you put us somewhere else where it’s not so noisy?” As the years went on his voice carried increased authority. You were judged by the way you handled yourself at the Stork or Twenty-one. It was business entertainment. As time went on you learned how to be at home in hotel suites and how to handle room-service waiters and bellboys and clerks and managers. Each individual required a slightly different technique, but it was not difficult, when they knew you required good service and were willing to pay for it generously. You had to realize that all these people had their problems and you had to know how to make allowances up to a certain limit, because in a great democracy all men were brothers. It cost money and time to learn to do these things in the right way, but most of it was business expense.

  He often thought how much his world had changed, since he had asked Bess Harcourt out. There was no office in those days to attend to the arrangements. He made them all himself, late on Wednesday afternoon, riding on the subway to Boylston Street and buying the tickets at the Colonial Theater and thence walking to the Ritz to reserve a table. He could not decide on Friday whether or not to wear evening clothes and he finally compromised on his best blue suit. He did not look as badly as he might have. Though he was still thin, his weight was catching up to his height. He had twenty-five dollars in his wallet, and the theater tickets in his inside pocket.

  Willis had already learned promptness by the spring of 1929. He changed from the Harvard Square subway at Park Street to a car which took him to Copley Square. Then he walked to the Bryson Harcourts’ house on Beacon Street, not hurriedly, because he wanted to arrive there at exactly a quarter before seven, and he did so, to the minute. When the maid opened the door—it was Tillie, the Bryson Harcourts’ waitress—he saw that the dining-room doors were open and that the table was not set, which meant that Mr. and Mrs. Bryson Harcourt were dining out, and their absence made the house seem large and lonely.

  “I’m calling for Miss Bess, Tillie,” he said, and he tried to sound like Mr. Henry Harcourt. “I’ll wait here for her, if you’ll let her know.”

  “Miss Bess is in the upstairs sitting room,” Tillie said. “She asked if you would please go up.”

  Willis had been at the Bryson Harcourts’ often enough to know where the upstairs sitting room was, a pleasant Beacon Street parlor where Bess and Bill entertained their friends while Mr. and Mrs. Bryson Harcourt used the library. He ran up the stairs quickly, and there was Bess, ready and waiting, standing in the center of a blue Chinese rug. She wore a black velvet dress and she had pinned on it the white gold and diamond clip that her parents had given her on her last birthday. He had never seen Bess look better and it made him happy that Bess had gone to so much trouble.

  “Why, Bess,” he said, “you look wonderful.”

  She did not smile, nor did she hold out her hand. She stood in the center of the blue Chinese rug, and he could still recall its pattern of yellow dragons.

  “Oh, Willis,” Bess said, “I’m glad you came on time.”

  “Of course I came on time,” he told her. “I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it.”

  “Oh, Willis,” Bess said, “I’m terribly embarrassed, but I know you’ll understand, because we’re such old friends. There’s something I want to explain. It’s dreadful but I simply can’t go out with you tonight.”

  “You can’t?” he heard himself repeating after her. “Why, what’s the trouble, Bess?”

  “Willis,” she said, “I’m so glad it’s you. I have another engagement tonight and I simply forgot about it. There wasn’t time to get hold of you or anything.”

  She spoke faster than usual, like a child reciting from memory, and for some reason Willis groped over her words clumsily before he could get them into sequence.

  “You have another engagement?” he repeated. “You mean you’re going out with someone else?”

  “I know it’s dreadful, Willis,” Bess said, “and I’ll promise not to let it happen again. I just forgot completely until he called me up this afternoon.”

  “What made you forget?” Willis asked. “Don’t you write things down?”

  She shook her head.

  “I should have,” she said. “Don’t look so upset, Willis. We can go out some other time—any time at all.”

  It was unfortunate that she used that phrase “any time at all.” It went through his mind like a glowing spark. He had an even temper and he usually could keep his emotions under control up to a certain point. If he passed that point it must have had something to do with the taken-for-granted quality of her speech, which indicated that he was Willis Wayde and that she could do anything she wanted with Willis Wayde.

  “That’s right,” he answered slowly, “any time at all.”

  He never did forget the relief that lighted up her face.

  “Oh, Willis,” she said, “I knew you’d be nice about it.”

  “All right,” he said, and his speech sounded rougher than he had meant it to. “All right, I’ll be nice, Bess.”

  “Thanks, Willis. Thanks ever so much,” she said.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he answered, “but next time let me know sooner when you find something you’d rather do.”

  He was glad he had looked straight at her.

  “Willis,” she said, “that isn’t so—not really.”

  “Listen,” Willis said. “I’m not as dumb as all that, Bess.”

  “Willis,” she said, “you needn’t look like that. Sometimes I hate you.”

  Willis felt his lips curve into a smile.

  “Other times you don’t,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “I don’t know how I feel about you. I wish I’d never known you.”

  “You needn’t lie,” he said. “You’re standing me up, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t know it would be like this,” she said. “Willis, don’t be angry. Please,” and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please.”

  While the sound of her whisper was still in his ears, Bess Harcourt’s eyes had widened and she was looking in panic at the open door. The front doorbell must have rung and neither of them had heard it, and now there was a sound of brisk footsteps on the stairs. He saw Bess swallow quickly.

  “Oh,” she said, “hello, Ed.”

  It was the Edward Ewing with whom he had played tennis, and Edward Ewing, unlike himself, was in a dinner coat.

  “Edward,” Bess said, and her voice sounded choked, “you remember Willis Wayde, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” Edward Ewing said. “How’s everything going?”

  “Fine,” Willis answered. “I’m glad to see you again.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Bess,” Edward Ewing said. “I wasn’t able to get anything at the Colonial. The time was just too short, I guess, but we can go to a movie anyway.”

  Willis smiled again, though his face still had an ironlike feeling, and he reached in his pocket and drew out a small envelope.

  “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “I have a couple of tickets for tonight for that show at the Colonial. I just stopped in to ask Bess if she didn’t want them, because I have to write a report. It’s due first thing tomorrow morning. The Harvard Business School, you know.”

  All at once he felt completely easy, and he was amused by Edward Ewing’s puzzled look.
r />   “Why that’s awfully nice …” Edward Ewing began, and Bess Harcourt interrupted him.

  “Isn’t that the queerest thing, Edward,” she said, “to have Willis come around with those two tickets?”

  “Yes,” Edward Ewing said slowly. “Yes, it’s pretty queer.”

  It was the first time that Willis ever recognized his ability to control a situation, and it was something worth remembering.

  “It’s what we call coincidence, I guess,” he said. “I’m glad you showed up just now and I hope you’ll use them. I hear it’s quite a show. I wish I didn’t have to miss it.”

  “Of course I can mail you a check in the morning, but are you sure you don’t want them?” Edward Ewing asked.

  “Yes,” Willis said, and he laughed. “Absolutely sure.”

  “I was taking Bess out to dinner,” Edward Ewing said. “Why don’t you have dinner with us before you go out to Cambridge?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Willis said, “but I’ve really got to get back. Bess wouldn’t like it if I stayed,” and he laughed before Bess could interrupt. “You see, her grandfather is helping me through Business School, and I’ve got to get good marks.”

  “Oh, Willis,” Bess said, “why can’t we all have dinner? It’s such a good idea.”

  “Good-by, Bess,” he said, and he held out his hand.

  He had walked to Central Square before he was in the least aware of anything around him. He could never forget his sense of his own inadequacy. He knew that Bess Harcourt’s attitude toward him was his fault as much as hers. He had always felt inferior to her, and his inferiority had always fed her arrogance. He told himself that night that he was through with Bess and that he would never see her again, and yet all the while he knew as sure as fate that Bess only needed to call him back.

  Two days later she sent him a letter, and he must have been expecting it because he felt a great relief when he saw the envelope addressed in her bold slanting handwriting. Its sentences were still clear in his memory.

  Dear Willis,

  I am ashamed of what I did the other night and I have been wretched ever since. I don’t know why it is that I sometimes want to hurt you. I don’t behave that way with other people, and I promise never to do it again. Please forgive me, and please—I’ll be in the country on Saturday and until Sunday afternoon—please come and see me. It’s always better when we are alone together.