Yet in all that time events were moving which we did not notice much: the Middle West was going dry; the amendment for the income tax was passed; there were rumors of labor trouble and rumors of war, and the Marines landed in Veracruz. But it must be that such things do not matter when you are young. Everything was simple then, and I often wish I were back in that time, because it was the time for which I was trained to live.
Bill spent a week with us in North Harbor the summer the World War started. But the beginning of the war was not as important to me as Mother’s not being well. It was her heart the doctor said, and she was to be quiet and she could only go up and down stairs once a day. I saw more of her that summer than I had ever seen, because she was always asking for me. I used to sit in her room for two hours every afternoon and read her Jane Austen and Trollope. And sometimes when I stopped reading I would find her looking at me, strangely, as though she did not know me.
“What are you thinking about, Mother?” I asked her once.
“About you,” she said, “and how they took you away. I was thinking about that day you went to school. That was when they took you away. Do you remember what good times we used to have?”
I remembered them and I told her so.
“You won’t forget them, will you?” she asked me.
“No,” I said, “I won’t.”
“Tell me about your friends,” she said. “You have so many friends.”
I told her about Joe Bingham and Bo-jo Brown and all the rest of them, but I did not tell her everything and probably she knew it.
“Harry,” she asked, “do you ever see Kay Motford?”
“Mother,” I said, “please don’t worry about Kay Motford.”
“I’m not worried, darling,” Mother said, “but don’t you think it would be nicer if you saw more of a sensible girl like Kay and less of that Louise Mitchell?”
“Where did you hear of Louise Mitchell?” I asked.
“Mothers have ways of knowing things, darling,” she said.
“Now, listen, Mother,” I said. “I can’t help it if I see Louise Mitchell and if I’m decently polite.”
“Darling,” Mother said, “it isn’t what I mean at all. I only mean that everyone knows that Louise is silly about boys.”
“Now, listen, Mother,” I said. “Just because a girl’s a little different—What have you heard about Louise? Has Mary been telling you anything?”
“So, it’s true,” Mother said. “You’re interested in Louise.”
“Mother,” I said, “I have to be polite to her, don’t I? I’m not interested in Louise, but I have to speak to her.”
“Kay Motford never chases after boys,” Mother said. “Kay is a dear, sweet girl.”
I wanted to ask her what Mary had told her, but I thought it was better not. I wished that Mary were not old enough to go to the Country Club.
Mother also was always talking about “someday.” Someday I would marry a nice girl and someday they would build us a house on part of Westwood. Someday I would be a partner in Smith and Wilding, after starting in the bond department. I might go abroad first for a year if I wanted, but the main thing was to get settled first. It was all so taken for granted that no one ever spoke about it much, but I knew that they were all beginning to think about the time when I would marry that nice girl.
Father himself brought the matter up one Sunday evening by saying that he believed in marrying young.
“Now, I married your mother when I was young,” he said, “and I have never regretted it. The main thing is to find the same sort of person that you are.”
“But I haven’t been thinking about getting married,” I said.
“That’s all right,” Father answered. “All of a sudden you will see that life isn’t right without it. I remember when I first thought of getting married.”
Father cut the end off a cigar and lighted it.
“Something’s happened to the cigars. The box was almost full last week. Have you been smoking them, Harry?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, someone’s been into the box,” Father said. “I suppose it’s Hugh. What was I talking about?”
“How you thought about getting married.”
“Oh, yes,” Father said. “I thought about it when I was sitting in a barrel in the marshes, shooting ducks. I was just sitting, looking over the pond, and I realized that I was all alone, that I ought to be doing something for someone. Then I thought about your mother. You’ll get the same idea sometime—it will come over you all of a sudden.”
“I haven’t got it yet,” I said.
“But you will,” Father answered. “It’s a good thing to be prepared for it, Harry—a good thing to be thinking of the right sort of girl. Now, I’ve always liked the Motfords.”
“Look here,” I said. “Honestly, Father, I’m not interested in Kay Motford. I don’t want to marry her.”
“Well,” Father said, “someone like her, that’s all.”
“Well, it doesn’t do any good to throw her at me,” I said.
I was certainly right about that. I began to dislike anyone who was a nice sensible girl. I began to be suspicious whenever Kay asked me to the house, and when I sat next to her at dinner before a dance I felt it had all been arranged beforehand. Kay told me later that she felt a good deal the same way.
The younger generation at North Harbor were always one big crowd. We would meet at the beach in the morning and race eighteen-footers twice a week or play tennis at the club, and in the evenings we would all go to the moving pictures or dance.
Kay was always sunburned and her nose kept peeling and she generally wore sneakers. Louise Mitchell was quite different. Louise was not good at games. She wore high heels and she did not like to walk. She always liked to be alone with someone and everyone always wanted to be alone with Louise, and so at the Country Club dances she seemed to be away somewhere most of the evening. But even in her absence you were aware of her presence, because you always wondered whom she was away with. Yet she always made you feel better about it when she got back.
“Why,” she would say, when you cut in on her, “where have you been? Is there something I’ve done? You aren’t angry with me, are you? Why did you just abandon me and let me get stuck with that nasty Albert Oliver?”
No matter what might happen, you always knew when she came back that she had been waiting for you all the time.
“Why didn’t you see me?” she would say. “I was right there in the corner, signaling to you. I was just there trying to get away from Joe Bingham.”
When I took Bill to the Country Club dance I warned him about the girls he might get stuck with.
“There’s Alice Oliver,” I said. “You want to look out for her, but you want to be particularly careful of Kay Motford. She’s a nice sensible girl.”
“All right,” said Bill. “Isn’t she the one who came to lunch freshman year—the one in the blue dress?”
“And there’s Louise Mitchell,” I said, “in green. You don’t have to worry about her at all.”
Then as we stood near the piazza doorway I explained about the Bingham girls and about Eleanor Frear and all the rest of them. The orchestra was playing “You Great Big Beautiful Doll,” and the air from the sea was soft and damp.
“There’s quite a crowd,” Bill said.
“Yes,” I said. “Just remember the main thing is not to get stuck with Kay. She’s dancing with that bird who’s staying at the Frears’. She’s probably been with him for half an hour.”
“All right,” said Bill. “Don’t worry. I’m all right.”
I did not worry about him, because Bill was always all right anywhere. Louise Mitchell saw me and waved to me. Her hair was yellow and her dress was yellowish-green, something like the color of sea water near the shore. She was dancing with an older man who must have been down for the week end. I hurried toward her and cut in at once.
“Harry, where have you been?” she said. “I’ve
been looking for you everywhere, looking and looking.”
“I just came,” I said. “Let’s go out and sit somewhere. Aren’t you feeling tired?”
“I think I’d better dance for a while. I don’t know why it is that everyone talks if you just go out and rest for a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you, Harry? Because you know I’d rather talk to you than anyone in the world. Oh, dear, here comes Albert Oliver.”
“Tell him you’re tired,” I said.
Louise squeezed my hand.
“I can’t,” she said. “I hate it, don’t you, not being able to do what you want? You know there’s no one I hate more than Albert Oliver. You’ll come back, won’t you, Harry?”
The trouble was that everyone else was always coming back.
“Awfully sorry, Harry,” Albert said. “There’s something I have to tell Louise. Louise, I found out what Mrs. Frear said about you. It’s a scream. You’ll just die laughing.”
I watched Louise pirouetting in Albert’s arms, listening to what Albert said Mrs. Frear had said, but she did not die laughing.
It was always said that North Harbor was just one big family and that everyone of every age did things together. Thus there were couples on the dance floor making awkward motions in their attempts to do the one-step, unaware that they were too old to be dancing. There were the married set, who never had much to do with us, and callow youths and stringy girls of my sister Mary’s age, who got in everybody’s way. As far as social intercourse went, these groups might have been in separate rooms, for each was absorbed in its own particular problems. I could see Louise Mitchell, listening to the poisoned tongue of Albert Oliver. I must wait until someone else cut in before I could cut back. I could see Mary dancing with one of the little Frears—the beach at North Harbor and the tennis courts and the golf course were always overrun with Frears—and I saw Bill King’s blond head. He was dancing with another of the Frears. Bo-jo Brown once said that Bill danced as though his pants were full of tacks, but this was only jealousy because Bill moved skillfully, contemptuously, in and out between the other couples. I only saw him vaguely, for someone else was cutting in on Louise. I could be back with her in a moment, but then I heard a voice beside me. It was Guy Motford, Kay’s older brother. Guy was older than I and bigger, out of college and working in Boston with Leeds and Stratton.
“Hello,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you. Someone’s got to dance with Kay.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Guy,” I said. “I’m pretty busy now.”
Guy put his arm affectionately around my shoulders as though he were just my age.
“She’s been dancing with that Eli for half an hour,” he said. “I’ll get somebody else in five minutes. I’ll promise you, word of honor.”
“I’d love to, Guy,” I said, “just as soon as I’ve had one more dance.”
“Now, listen, Harry,” Guy said. “Just do it for me. I’ll be watching. I won’t let you down.”
I knew that there was nothing to do about it. I saw Kay’s blue dress moving nearer.
“Go ahead,” said Guy. “Please, Harry.”
After all I would have to dance with Kay once sometime. The music stopped and Kay and her partner stopped near me. Her partner looked hot and tired, but he applauded violently.
“Hello, Harry,” Kay called. “I want you to meet Mr.——I don’t know why I forgot your name. I’m never good at names.”
“Siegfried,” her partner said.
“Oh, yes,” said Kay. “I don’t know why I forgot it.” Then the music started again. I was standing facing Kay. Mr. Siegfried was gone.
“Why,” Kay said. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s gone.”
“But where’s he gone to?” Kay said, and then she bit her lower lip.
“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s dance.”
“You don’t have to,” Kay said. “I can go out and fix my hair.”
“Why, there’s nothing the matter with your hair,” I said.
“I saw you talking to Guy,” Kay said. “He asked you to dance with me, didn’t he?” I didn’t answer.
“Didn’t he?” Kay said.
“No,” I answered, “he didn’t.”
Kay looked at me; her eyes were hard and bright.
“You’re a rotten liar,” she said.
It occurred to me that there was no reason for her to be disagreeable about it.
“And you’re a rotten dancer too,” Kay said. “You never can keep time to the music.”
“I’d do better,” I said, “if you didn’t always try to lead.”
“I like to keep time to the music,” Kay said. “Don’t dance with me if you don’t like it. I can go up and do my hair.”
The music stopped again and did not continue, even when everybody clapped. I saw Louise Mitchell disappearing, and Albert Oliver was with her again.
“Go out and chase Louise Mitchell if you want to,” Kay said. “It’s all right for you to leave me now.”
“Why, Kay,” I said, “I’m having a fine time.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so polite,” Kay said. “Why don’t you ever say what you think?”
“I saw you yesterday,” I said, “walking with your dogs.”
“Yes,” Kay said. “I saw you too. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Let’s go and find Guy.”
“He’s probably in the bar,” I said. “Let’s dance.”
The music had started again and Kay shrugged her shoulders.
“All right,” she said. “You’ve got that friend of yours, Bill King, staying with you, haven’t you? He’s awfully good-looking.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Harry,” Kay said, “will you please keep time to the music.”
“I’m sorry, Kay,” I said.
“Can’t you ever say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?” I asked.
“Anything, anything at all. Have you been reading the newspapers? Do you know that France has declared war on Germany?”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I think the French will lick them.”
The orchestra was playing “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee.” I looked around the room over Kay’s shoulder. Louise Mitchell was not there.
“Harry,” Kay said, “do you hear what I’m saying?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry, Kay.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Kay said, and she walked toward the door and I followed her.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” Kay said.
Of course I had to stay until someone asked her to dance. Kay walked down the steps, across the putting green, over toward the first tee that overlooked the ocean, and I followed her.
“It’s cloudy tonight,” I said.
Kay did not answer.
I took a box of cigarettes from my pocket and lighted one. Smoking was still new to me.
“England will have to fight,” I said, “if Germany’s in Belgium.”
Kay did not answer; she stood looking at the sea.
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
“Then give it to me,” Kay said, “and please go away.”
I handed her my handkerchief and she snatched it out of my hand and blew her nose. It was too dark to see her face.
“Why, Kay,” I asked her, “what’s the matter? I haven’t said anything rude, have I?”
“No,” said Kay. “Please go away.”
“But I can’t leave you out here alone,” I said. “If there’s anything I said, Kay—”
“Don’t talk,” Kay said. “I’m all right. We’ll go back now. I’m going home. I’m going to walk.”
“Then I’ll walk back with you,” I said. “You can’t walk home alone.”
We walked very fast back into the circle of light by the club veranda, and as we walked up the steps we came face to face with Bill King.
&
nbsp; “I’ve been looking for you,” Bill said to Kay. “I want to find someone who can dance.”
“All right,” said Kay, and she turned toward me and stared at me for a second. “Here’s your handkerchief, Harry.”
I have often thought of that scene. Bill did not need to ask Kay to dance, and yet he did, and I was left standing there, wondering why he asked her. I stood staring after them; Bill’s arm was around her and Kay was smiling. I walked down to the bar off the locker room, a big room with heavy mission furniture, and I stood by the doorway, looking in. There were some men my father’s age sitting around a table.
“It will be over,” I heard someone say, “inside of three months. They can’t lick the French Army. If you say they can, you don’t know the French.”
I stood there, listening to the clash of voices and to the music coming through the open door. There was no way of telling then that a world was ended or that a page was turning. Words and thoughts were rising like a storm, and Kay and Bill and I and all the rest of us were going to go right through it. We would all go through it like a train going through a dark tunnel, and we would emerge into the daylight at the other end to face an entirely different country.
XI
You’d Better Ask Frank Wilding
When I started in to work with Smith and Wilding, the summer I finished college, Father and I stayed at Westwood, after Mother and Mary moved to North Harbor. In the evenings after dinner Father would frequently talk about old Mr. Wilding, the head of the firm. In Father’s eyes he was a hero, and an infallible prophet of world events.
“Frank Wilding is never wrong,” he said once. “I don’t believe it, but Frank says we will be in the war by next spring.”
I never knew where Mr. Wilding got his information. He had some system of forming judgments of his own, some way of sorting facts and putting them together which was nearly always right. I have often wondered whether it was instinct more than brains. If I could write I should like to do a pen portrait of him, for he was a superlative product in his way, an ideal of a sort of business success which has vanished. Yet I wonder if he were alive right now and in possession of a certain amount of vigor, whether Mr. Wilding would not do rather well. At any rate, he was right, for we were in the war eventually.
H. M. Pulham, Esquire Page 11