During those weeks that followed Harry’s suicide Abraham Lockwood often wished he knew someone in whom he could confide the secret of the Concern. He had already dismissed Adelaide as a possible confidante. He had a wild, short-lived impulse to confide in old Peter Hofman, who as a man of power would understand some aspects of the Concern but as an unimaginative, conventional individual could not be expected to see very far into a future that for him had no reality. Morris Homestead, a member of a dynasty, would understand some aspects of the Concern but the dynasty of which Morris was a member was already in being, and nothing so new as the Lockwood Concern would hold as much interest for the present head of a dynasty already in its third century. Morris Homestead’s placid acceptance of his inherited and continuing place in Pennsylvania history was an attitude that Abraham Lockwood viewed with admiring envy, and Morris served better as an unconscious model than as a contemporary confidant. And so, for the time being, the secret of Abraham Lockwood’s Concern remained intact, having survived some vague suspicions on the part of Harry Penn Downs. It was, of course, much too early to explain the Concern to George Bingham Lockwood. The boy might not take kindly to the notion that his regimen was being ordered with his grandsons’ and not his own life the beneficiary. George, his father knew, was an obedient boy, but not a subservient one and not an unimaginative one. The younger son, Penrose, was already in the habit of obedience to his father, his mother, and his older brother, and Abraham Lockwood was already sure that Penrose would go through his entire life always obeying someone, therefore would not be a hazard to the Concern so long as the right kind of person gave him the right kind of guidance. Abraham Lockwood looked forward to the time when George, married and with children of his own, could be apprised of the existence of the Concern in such a way as to make him a willing convert to it. That time, however, was not now.
(It was often remarked upon in Swedish Haven that Abraham Lockwood was a wonderful father to his sons. )
In his preoccupation with the Concern and his growing fortune, his motivated interest in other men, women and children, and money, Abraham Lockwood had little time or curiosity for what was happening to himself. The Concern, his own secret, was, to be sure, a personal matter comparable to a religious zeal, but in function the Concern dealt with the actions and postures and behavior of others than himself. Consequently Abraham Lockwood had not done much thinking about Abraham Lockwood, and he was taken by surprise when he discovered that the secrecy of the Concern and his reluctance to confide in Adelaide had altered his relationship with his wife. It was as though the Concern had become a mistress, whose existence was to be denied. So big an unshared secret, so integral a part of his thoughts and actions, daily and hourly, had grown insidiously from a precautionary measure to a conditioned attitude. At least every day of his life, and in many of his waking hours, Abraham Lockwood had to exclude Adelaide, until on no certain day, at no certain hour, but from one sleeping to one waking he was conscious of having entered into a different phase of his relationship as husband. He saw a mole on her shoulder that he had not noticed before; one breast was slightly lower than the other; her Pennsylvania Dutch accent was nearly gone; changes had been taking place, and his failure to have noticed them taking place was bewildering until he traced the reason: the Concern.
Abraham Lockwood was now forty-nine years old; in good health, rich, and consciously enjoying the respectful treatment he was earning by maintaining his position in the community. He had not taken stock of himself at any of the milestones—at, for instance, age forty or age forty-five—and he was far from ready to slow down now, with so much yet to be done. The man who slowed down, stopped. A Morris Homestead had never moved at a rapid pace, since there was no particular reason for him to do so; a Harry Penn Downs had moved at a rapid pace but he had slowed down, or been slowed down, because he had not had real staying power. Harry Penn Downs, in Abraham Lockwood’s opinion, had resorted to dishonest practice because he was exhausted. He had consumed his legitimate energy, had then taken to desperate gambling and finally to plain theft. In any event, he had had to slow down, and slowing down, had stopped.
According to custom, there was no one but immediate family at the funeral of Harry Penn Downs, a suicide. But when a week had passed Abraham Lockwood wrote a note to Martha Sterling Downs and, at his request, she allowed him to pay her a call.
As he had said during his last meeting with Downs, Martha Downs would not have recognized him, but she was expecting him and was thus forewarned. She rose to greet him as he followed a maid into the library, and if he had vaguely expected a tearful, abject widow, he quickly conceded how wrong that was. “Good afternoon, Locky,” she said. “It’s very nice of you to call. You didn’t bring your wife, I see.”
“I never thought to. You didn’t know each other, and this—”
“Wouldn’t have been the right moment. You’re right. Sit down, Locky. I call you Locky as if we were old friends. Do you mind that?”
“I like it.”
“There’ll be a cup of tea in a little while, but let’s wait, shall we?”
“Yes.”
“I know you’re not a drinker, although if you’d like something?”
“No thanks.”
“I’m very pleased that our sons are going to room together next year. It’s nice to continue the association. Smoke, if you like. I do, so it doesn’t bother me.”
“I haven’t got anything to smoke. I never carry cigarettes.”
“Well, have one.” She offered him her tiny silver case, and he lit their cigarettes. “I’m also pleased that we may be neighbors this summer. You have a cottage, or a boathouse, whatever they call them, at a place called The Run, haven’t you?”
“Why, yes. For several years. Are you going to be there? That would be very good news.”
“You must know the Westervelts? Well, Mr. Westervelt is a cousin of mine, and he very kindly offered to let us have his boathouse. We couldn’t afford to go away otherwise. They’re going abroad this summer, so it works out very nicely.”
“They have one of the nicest boathouses at The Run. One of the few that you can live in. You know what The Run is? It’s a reservoir, an artificial lake, owned by the coal company, and people like J. B. Westervelt get the very best boathouses. You’ll enjoy it, if you don’t mind bathing in cold water.”
“I prefer it to ocean bathing. Is your wife a swimmer?”
“No. This will probably be our last summer at The Run. Adelaide wants to go to the seashore next year.” He stopped talking and she continued to look at him until he became uneasy. “Is there something wrong, Martha?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. No.” She laughed again.
“What’s funny?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. Not possibly in a million years. It’s funny, and you’d enjoy the humor of it, but quickly, let’s find something else to talk about. I hadn’t realized I was staring.”
“It must be something good.”
“Don’t ask any more about it, please. Perhaps we’d better talk about Harry. Did you lose a lot of money, Locky?”