“Meanwhile we’ll be overjoyed to have you as a client. I always hoped you’d come with us some day,” said Morris Homestead. “I’m going to make sure to send you those cigars.”
The promise of the cigars was as shocking as a slap in the face. There were so many large and small things Morris Homestead could have offered Abraham Lockwood: a partnership in the Homestead firm, an invitation to join the Philadelphia Club, an invitation to his house for a weekend—all sorts of things. A box of cigars was exactly the present that Abraham Lockwood sent to the Swedish Haven police chief at Christmas. But on the way home the sting went out of the slap; Morris Homestead was Morris Homestead, and the bestowal of his confidences regarding money was, for Morris, a high compliment; the box of cigars belonged in another context; and as for the partnership or the club membership or the weekend invitation, they would never be forthcoming, and now Abraham Lockwood knew it. The knowledge had an oddly satisfactory effect; it more firmly fixed his base in Swedish Haven. He was no longer a young man, and quite by accident he had been shown where he belonged for the rest of his life. He had reached the point of unprecedented intimacy with Morris Homestead, and he soon understood that Morris never would have guessed that his friend Locky was waiting to be asked to become a part of the Philadelphia life.
Abraham Lockwood never ceased to wonder at the thinking and even the feeling that he believed to be his own, only to be duplicated by Morris Homestead’s thinking and feeling. Morris Homestead’s Concern was a protective position over what he already had, while Abraham Lockwood recognized his Concern for an acquisitive enterprise; nevertheless in both cases there was this desire for money for more than its own sake. Abraham Lockwood could see, as at a distance but now at least faintly discernible, the established dynasty, the sons of George and Penrose who would possess the same feelings of responsibility and noblesse oblige that governed the actions of Morris Homestead. Abraham Lockwood could even look back upon himself from the vantage point of the second generation to come, and see himself recognized as the major architect and builder of the dynasty. (At least they would so recognize him if they had any sense. ) What was now his Concern would be an accomplished fact two generations hence. Of that he was certain, although ten years earlier he had been less confident that the scheme could be accomplished in such a comparatively short time. The change toward optimism was a result of several developments; the world in general was moving faster than ever before; and as he contrasted himself with his father there was already progress at so rapid a rate that it was very nearly incredible. In sum, the Lockwoods in three or four generations would have achieved the position that the Homesteads had reached in more than two centuries.
Once again Abraham Lockwood saw the inevitability of his remaining in Swedish Haven. Several tunes he had been tempted by Philadelphia—or, more accurately, had weakened in his determination to remain in Swedish Haven. But some circumstance had always taken him back. A box of cigars, a grasping woman—these had redirected him homeward now. A small gesture of generosity became a kindly banishment; the demands of an exciting but expensive mistress had been a momentary threat to his fortune and thus to the welfare of the Concern, and he had retreated to Swedish Haven before the last syllable of “a million dollars” was out of her mouth.
When the cigars arrived Abraham Lockwood wrote a carefully courteous note of thanks, then, in a rare moment of ironic humor, gave the cigars to Schissler, the night constable. Morris Homestead was something of a constable, in his way.
“We don’t see much of you these days,” said Morris Homestead.
“No, Morris,” said Martha Downs. “And I know you count the hours from one time to the next.”
“Well, no, hardly that,” said Morris Homestead. “But you do seem to have disappeared.”
“I’m still in mourning,” she said. “It’s only seven months since Harry died. I’ve got five months to go.”
“Of course. You don’t consider this a party?”
“I consider it a bloody bore. Don’t you? You must, or you wouldn’t be driven to small talk with me.”
“Well, it isn’t intended to entertain us. It’s for the young people.”
“And it’s a bloody bore. It is for you, and it is for me. Awkward, silly little girls. Pimply, ungainly boys. Except for that Lockwood boy. You know him, of course. Abraham Lockwood’s son. The most interesting boy here, and the only new blood.”
“Why is he so interesting?” he said. “He’s on the verge of handsome, but interesting? Why?”
“Why is anybody interesting? He’s different. He’s good-looking. He dances well.”
“You haven’t proved your point.”
“I know. I’m just talking as a woman, looking at the new crop. You men do that. Perhaps you don’t, Morris, but most men look at the young girls. Well, I look at the boys, in exactly the same way, with exactly the same thing in mind.”
“And come to the conclusion that if you were thirty years younger you’d set your cap for George Lockwood?”
“My cap. My nightcap.”
“Very amusing, Martha. Luckily the boy is safe.”
“Yes, from me. But not from those daughters and nieces and cousins of ours. He isn’t safe from them, yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s still young enough to be unspoiled. To do a nice thing on an impulse. Instinctively. And without counting on any reward. What he did for my Sterling.”
“What did he do for your Sterling?”
“Hasn’t his father boasted about it to you? I’d have thought Locky would have told you all about it.”
“You don’t like Locky?”
“I don’t dislike Locky, but I know what he is, and so do you.”
“Well—I suppose I do. But I’ve always liked Locky. What about the son?”
“As soon as he heard about Harry, he asked Sterling to be his roommate at St. Bartholomew’s this year. The other boys may have wanted to be nice to Sterling, but George Lockwood was the one who did something.”
“I hadn’t known that. It’s very difficult for boys to be nice to each other. They think it’s a sign of weakness.”
“Of course they do. But George Lockwood was a little bit better than that. And it wasn’t because Sterling was one of his best friends. Sterling as a matter of fact had been stand-offish toward George. But he was so touched that when he told me about it he cried. The one boy that he’d least expected to be nice to him. George Lockwood.”
“I had no idea,” said Morris Homestead. “I also didn’t know that it would matter so much to you.”
“No, you didn’t. I believe that. You’ve always known all about me, haven’t you, Morris? What do you do when you find that people refuse to be pigeonholed.”
“I don’t know, Martha. What do you do?”
“That’s a fine boy you have, Locky,” said Morris Homestead. The men were having cigars and a moment of male privacy at the St. Bartholomew’s commencement.
“Thank you, Morris. He is a good boy. I have high hopes for him.”
“I know you’ll want to see him a Zeta Psi, but I hope you don’t mind if we try to pledge him.”
“Thank you, Morris. But he’s not going to be a Zeta Psi or St. Anthony either.”
“What have you got against fraternities? I’ve always thought you were a very loyal Zete.”
“I have nothing against them. But George is going to Princeton.”
“To Princeton? By his choice, or yours?”