Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

  The lowering of her voice gave Willis an uncomfortable sensation. It was the duty of anyone in business to discount any unpleasant possibility, but somehow Mrs. Jacoby made the passing on of Mr. Jacoby an accomplished fact.

  “Now, Mrs. Jacoby,” Willis said, “it’s probably the winter climate. I’m sure Mr. Jacoby has many happy years ahead of him.”

  He was not surprised that Mrs. Jacoby should discount the remark, but he did think that she might have acknowledged it slightly.

  “All I care about is the earnings,” Mrs. Jacoby said. “Rahway Belt won’t mean a thing to me except as another holding in the portfolio”—she lowered her voice again—“if Manley passes on.”

  Willis cleared his throat. He wished there were not always someone upon whom his future depended.

  “Would you mind telling me, Mrs. Jacoby,” he said, “if Mr. Jacoby should—er—pass on, are you planning to sell your stock?”

  “I won’t sink any more money in it,” Mrs. Jacoby said. “I’ve bailed the company out once but I won’t again. It’s Manley’s company, you know.”

  Willis laughed, but he was afraid his laughter was not very convincing.

  “You won’t have to bail it out again, Mrs. Jacoby,” he said.

  He was pleased that Mrs. Jacoby did not pause before she answered.

  “No,” she said, “you’re doing very well, but let’s stop beating about the bush. I won’t have any sentimental feeling about Rahway Belt—if Manley passes on.”

  He was always grateful to Mrs. Jacoby for having stated her thoughts so frankly. He could understand that Mrs. Jacoby was actually saying that the end of an era was approaching, and that he must begin looking out for his own interests—if Manley Jacoby should pass on. He was certain that he never would have thought of writing Mr. Bryson Harcourt—that he would only have thought in the vaguest way about combining the Klaus patents with the Planeroid patents—if Mrs. Jacoby had not said that she would no longer have a sentimental interest in Rahway Belt in the event of Mr. Jacoby’s demise.

  It was a relief to meet someone like Mrs. Jacoby, who did not have the Harcourts’ sentiments, because anyone with common sense knew that sentiment had no place in industrial transactions.

  As soon as he left the Jacoby house on the ridge, Willis went at once to see Sylvia at the hospital. She was sitting up in her new bed jacket, and there were several new vases of flowers in the room, besides new offerings of booties and knitted blankets, all with a blue motif for a boy. He made a careful note of all the cards so that he might acknowledge them without bothering Sylvia.

  “How is Mr. Jacoby, dear?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’m afraid he’s not very well, honey,” Willis said. “There’s the usual arthritis, but it is also complicated by a heart condition, but don’t worry about it, honey.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sylvia said. “I’m just beginning to get to like Mr. Jacoby.”

  He did not want Sylvia to be worried, especially now that she was giving little Paul several ounces more milk than she had managed for little Al.

  “What is going to happen if he dies?” Sylvia asked.

  It was obviously not the time to tell Sylvia about his conversation with Mrs. Jacoby.

  “Honey,” he said, “you let me worry about that one.”

  It was fortunate that Willis started that same evening to give serious thought to the possible merger of Rahway Belt and Harcourt Mill, because Mr. Jacoby died two weeks later, just when he was rallying and when preparations were going head for the Jacobys’ annual trip to Arizona. Of course the whole picture changed immediately.

  The truth was that the time was ripe for a change and everything fitted together in a more perfect manner than any other proposed merger that Willis had ever explored. Usually there were many unexpected obstacles, but not with Harcourt and Rahway Belt. There was no duplication in their products, because Planeroid filled a need completely different from the more ambitious Hartex line. In fact the two plants complemented each other, and the only possible objections to a merger was distance.

  Two days after Mr. Jacoby’s funeral, Willis decided to get in touch with Mr. Bryson Harcourt, without consulting Mrs. Jacoby, because obviously no one would be committed by an exploratory conversation. In order to avoid office gossip he wrote the letter himself, using his portable typewriter, on a card table in his living room in Orange. Little Paul and Sylvia had only recently arrived from the hospital with Miss Farquahr, a trained nurse who was giving Sylvia a sort of refresher course in baby-tending. Margaret, the new general maid, who had come after Minnie left, had already started quarreling with Miss Farquahr, for no good reason except to prove the axiom that trained nurses and other household employees never could get on together. Sylvia was still not allowed downstairs, and little Al was quite a problem, since he had reached the stage of pulling breakable objects off tables and then of pulling the tables and chairs on top of himself. Just when Willis was preparing to sit down quietly before supper, Sylvia had called to him from upstairs that he would simply have to look after little Al until his bedtime. Miss Farquahr was busy changing little Paul, and Margaret was busy with supper.

  Dear Mr. Harcourt,

  I am Willis Wayde, whom I hope you will remember from the old days at the Harcourt Mill. Although it has been a long time since we have met, I have a warm spot in my heart for Harcourt, and any news I hear from the mill is still to me like news from home in a very real sense.…

  There was a crash and a scream from little Al. It was pure coincidence, of course, that Al had contrived to pull over the silver cigarette box which the Bryson Harcourts had sent as a wedding present. The corner of the box hit Al on the forehead, and now the floor was strewn with cigarettes.

  “All right, Al,” Willis said. “Daddy doesn’t want Al to touch. No, no.”

  It was necessary in those days to speak to Al in simple monosyllables, and even so Al usually went right on with what he was doing. It took quite a while to gather up the cigarettes, and Al roared when the silver box was taken away from his clutches. He did not want the small horse which Willis gave him in place of it, and so thoughtlessly Willis let Al have his fountain pen. In the quiet that ensued Willis returned to his typewriter.

  Knowing how busy you must be, I shall state my reason for this letter briefly. I find myself here in general charge of the Rahway Belting Company, and I believe I have an idea regarding its future …

  Willis observed that Al had completely dismantled the fountain pen and that ink had cascaded over his knitted suit and down to the rug. He immediately took the pen away from little Al, who began to weep again, and then he called first for Miss Farquahr and then for Margaret, but no one answered. Then as long as the damage had been done he turned back to the typewriter.

  … which I think may interest you as much as it does me. I would prefer to tell you the details verbally and so I ask whether I may call on you at your convenience and by appointment.…

  There was another crash by the fireplace. Little Al had pulled over the fire tongs and shovel, and this time he appeared to be severely injured, but Willis decided to finish the letter because fortunately little Al’s screams of pain were changing to a shriller and more familiar note of indignant fury. As Willis endeavored to concentrate, it occurred to him that life was one long journey past milestones of hurt feelings, and though you might learn to suppress the reaction, it was better, perhaps, to scream openly and shamelessly like little Al.

  It so happens that I must make a few calls in Boston next week. You may not have heard, by the way, that the Walton people up there are ordering our new Planeroid conveyors, and this is keeping us pretty busy in Rahway.

  Willis looked up again from his typewriter. Miss Farquahr had arrived. She stood impersonally in front of the card table in her starched white uniform.

  “What have you done to little Alfred, Mr. Wayde?” she asked.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Willis said. “He does things to himself. Would you please m
ind taking him upstairs?”

  “His crying upset Mrs. Wayde,” Miss Farquahr said.

  “Miss Farquahr,” Willis said, and he smiled in an engaging way that usually worked with secretaries and office employees, “I don’t seem to be very good at child rearing and I am trying to write a rather important confidential letter. Couldn’t you keep an eye on Alfred for a minute, Miss Farquahr?”

  After all, he was paying Miss Farquahr a substantial weekly wage, and it seemed to him that whenever she was wanted Miss Farquahr was indulging in necessary rest periods.

  “I haven’t a minute now, Mr. Wayde,” Miss Farquahr told him. “I think Alfred would be quiet if you were to read to him. He’s interested in Peter Rabbit. Mrs. Wayde read it through to him five times yesterday and he sat on the bed as quiet as a little mousey.”

  “All right,” Willis said. “If you get it, I’ll read it to him.”

  If he had a minute or two longer he might be able to conclude his letter to Mr. Bryson Harcourt.

  “Peter Rabbit is right on the easy chair by the fireplace,” Miss Farquahr said. “Alfred sees it now. Alfred, give Peter Rabbit to Daddy, and Daddy read to Alfred.”

  Then Miss Farquahr was gone and Willis and Alfred were alone again in the living room.

  “Alfred,” Willis said, “sit down and look at the pretty pictures. Sit down and be quiet, Alfred.”

  Alfred seemingly respected the change in his father’s voice. He sat down quietly on the living-room rug. Of course, it was not a quiet that would last, but it gave Willis an opportunity to collect his thoughts. It was not literally true that he had to go up to Boston to make a few calls, but the statement sounded well.

  If you will write me—or better, send me a wire—I can arrange my schedule to fit yours.

  It will be a genuine pleasure to see you again and to talk over old times. I hope that Mrs. Harcourt and Bill and Bess are all well and that you are enjoying a good winter.

  Sincerely, as always,

  Little Al was becoming restive again.

  “Here, Al,” Willis told him, “sit down on Daddy’s knee. ‘Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived …’”

  Although Willis tried to put suspense and conviction into his reading, Alfred would not stay still.

  He dropped Alfred hastily to the floor and looked down at his carefully pressed trousers.

  “Miss Farquahr!” he shouted. “Would you mind coming down here? Quickly, please, Miss Farquahr.”

  Thinking it over later, Willis could see that there were a number of things wrong about his letter. If he had done it in the office after hours he could have given his whole mind to the composition. The unevenness and the strike-overs must have shown Mr. Harcourt that it was a home-written effort, and of course it was hastily phrased, but it never occurred to Willis for a moment that Mr. Bryson Harcourt would have thought the letter was merely an application for a job. He was shocked when he found a letter on his desk at Rahway three days later.

  “Roger and I delighted if you can return to us again,” the telegram read. “Meet me at my house, Beacon Street, five-thirty Tuesday, and please stay to dinner.”

  There was an overcordiality in the telegram that indicated Bryson Harcourt’s transparency. Old H.H. would never have sent such a telegram, but it was clear that Willis was still favorably remembered back at the Harcourt Mill. There was also an indication that things were not going well, since they were overanxious to have him back.

  “Delighted to meet you five-thirty Tuesday,” he wired. “Sorry gave impression seeking position because am happy here.”

  He wanted to make it plain from the start that he expected no favors. In the last analysis he was presenting a simple business proposition which even Bryson Harcourt would readily understand.

  Boston had been off the track for Willis Wayde for many years, except for fleeting visits with Sylvia to Craigie Street in Cambridge. He had only been back to the city once, businesswise, since he had left the Harcourt Mill, and that was for Beakney-Graham. He had gone on this occasion with Mr. Beakney as a part of what Mr. Beakney called a “presentation team.” The presentation team had occupied cramped quarters in the Hotel Statler, while Mr. Beakney had resided in a comfortable suite at the Ritz-Carlton overlooking the Public Garden.

  If you were out after a big account, Mr. Beakney would say, a little extra expense money was very often a mighty fine investment. By this he did not mean ostentation, Mr. Beakney used to say, but quiet dignity without a trace of brashness. A well-tailored, unobtrusive suit of clothes, Mr. Beakney used to say, plus the right tie and a well-shined pair of shoes, plus an expensive but worn suitcase, and a fountain pen that wrote at the right time—all these minor factors were better than an hour of sales presentation. Appearance and confidence meant as much as words, Mr. Beakney used to say, and a sound hotel address would back up all those other details.

  It was advisable never to forget that someone from your client’s office might drop into your room with a message or something. It was always advisable to keep things shipshape, and he wanted everyone who traveled for Beakney-Graham to have a photograph on his bureau of his mother, or of his wife and children. The thought that a man cared about his home had a fine effect on anyone who might drop in. Seriously, as Mr. Beakney used to say, you might as well face it—America was a woman’s world. For instance, wasn’t 80 per cent of the national income controlled by women? You had better love your mother if you worked for Beakney-Graham.

  XX

  Willis had spent many hours planning his approach to Mr. Bryson Harcourt. He knew it was better to show indifference than eagerness. Without undue familiarity he wished to show that he had a warm and loyal spot in his heart for the Harcourt Mill and the memory of Mr. Henry Harcourt. He wished to show that he was calling on Mr. Bryson Harcourt as one who still appreciated the many kindnesses the family had shown him, but he also wanted to have Mr. Bryson Harcourt realize that he was a successful individual in his own right.

  Willis had reserved a room at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston. He took the ten-o’clock-in-the-morning train so that he would arrive at the hotel in time to spruce up before he went to see Mr. Harcourt at Beacon Street. He had applied saddle soap himself to the smaller of the two suitcases that he had purchased for his honeymoon. The unobtrusive briefcase he carried was more of a leather envelope for a few documents than a salesman’s bag, but even so Willis decided to leave it at the hotel. He wore a dark overcoat, which he had purchased two weeks before, and a darkish herringbone suit—double-breasted—made for him by the same tailor patronized by Mr. Beakney. Little Paul had been five months on the way when Willis had decided to buy tailor-made clothes rather than readymade suits. It seemed extravagant at such a time, what with all the doctor’s bills and hospital bills, but still, as Willis pointed out to Sylvia, a good tailor-made suit would outlast a ready-made one two to one. There was no need for him to worry about his appearance when he registered at the Ritz. Instead he thought of the time when he had reserved a table for Bess Harcourt and himself—it was amazing to think how many years ago. He also recollected he had promised Sylvia to call up Mr. and Mrs. Hodges in Cambridge, but he decided not to do so until he was finished with the Harcourt matter. Sylvia and everything in Orange seemed very far away.

  “Front,” the hotel clerk called, and he handed Willis’s room key to the bellboy. “The room overlooks the Public Garden, as you suggested, Mr. Wayde. Can you tell us how long you will be with us?”

  “Tonight,” Willis said, and he smiled. “And tomorrow night, I hope. I always enjoy it here in Boston.”

  When he was alone in his double room, Willis opened his suitcase immediately and hung up his extra suit and put his traveling photographs on the writing table. The photograph of his mother had been with him ever since the Harvard Business School. Beside it was a snapshot of Sylvia which he had taken himself at Chieftain Manor, and a baby picture of little Al
. It was still only half past four o’clock by the time Willis had shaved and changed his shirt, and so he had time to sit for a while looking out at the Public Garden. There was no doubt that the days were getting longer. The waning light on the Public Garden reminded him of the light on the snow at the Harcourt place, and somehow the afternoon shadows and the sky itself had a quality that was different from New Jersey—a harsher, plainer quality.

  Willis discovered that Beacon Street and the Bryson Harcourts’ house only aroused distinct memories without awakening the keen emotion that they had once evoked. He remembered the night he had first walked up the steps with Bess, and he remembered the time when he had asked Bess to dinner and the theater—when Bess had stood him up for Edward Ewing. Thinking of the whole episode made Willis feel like a modern traveler regarding a classical ruin.

  The maid who answered the door was a dimly familiar figure from the past. He was surprised that she remembered him much more clearly than he did her.

  “I’ll take your coat, Mr. Willis,” the maid said.

  “Oh, thank you,” Willis said. “I hope Mr. Harcourt is expecting me.”

  He glanced unobtrusively at his wrist watch as he spoke. It was two minutes after five-thirty.

  “Oh yes,” the maid said, “Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt are expecting you upstairs, Mr. Willis.”

  Although it had been nearly ten years since Willis had seen them, Mr. Bryson and Mrs. Harcourt still had the durable outdoor quality that he remembered. There were gray streaks in Mr. Bryson’s dark hair, but he still had a young look. There had always been a warmth and kindness about Mr. Bryson and this quality had not gone. There was a moment, as Willis stood in the doorway of the upstairs parlor, when he realized that the balance between them all had changed. He knew before either of the Harcourts spoke that they were anxious to see him in the way people were when you had something that they wanted.