“He couldn’t just put it in his will.”
“Nothing as broad as that. But if the happy relationship continues, from year to year he can quietly take care of her.”
“It’s a doctor, you told me.”
“Yes, but all his money didn’t come from healing sick people. Oh, you’d recognize the name. If you gave a little thought to it you could probably guess.”
“Isaac Wickersham.”
“What a beautiful spring day. True, it’s almost summer.”
“And I hit the nail on the head, first try.”
“Beautiful spring day.”
“Oh, of course. Dr. Wickersham belongs to St. Anthony.”
“Finished your cigar, Locky? We’d better be getting back to the women.”
“All right, let’s get back to the women. So that’s who it is? I’ve been introduced to that old fart at least once a year for the last thirty. I used to think he was a Doctor of Divinity, he looked at me so disapprovingly.”
“He’s not so very old, Dr. Wickersham. Sixty. And they all live forever, that family. His father’s still alive, which disproves the old wives’ tale that port wine shortens your life. Comforting thought.”
“A good screw never hurt a man, either.”
“Why limit it to men? Well, here comes a man that could have had better luck. Arthur Francis Ferris. Wonder if he ever buggered any of our boys.”
“You come out with the damnedest things.”
“I know. It’s being away, I guess. That, and feeling more at ease with you.”
“You at ease with me? I was always the one that was ill at ease with you.”
“I know. Isn’t it a pity? Hello, there, Arthur. Very good show you put on today.”
“Thank you, Morris. Good afternoon, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Good afternoon, Father Ferris. Guess this place will seem very quiet and empty tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. But September will soon be around, and we have Pen-rose with us then. I hope he does as well as George. Quite a mark to shoot at.”
“Don’t expect too much of Penrose.”
“I gather Penrose is more like my offspring,” said Morris Homestead.
“Your boy wouldn’t have given us any trouble if he’d been a little less like his rather and a little more like his mother.”
“That’s the kind of thing you think fathers like to hear, Arthur. The fact of the matter is that I was always a very conscientious student, all through school and college, and you can go to hell.”
“Have a little respect for my cloth, Morris. And besides, Mr. Lockwood may not understand.”
“I delight in taking you down a few pegs, old boy. You’re so confounded deistic, if that’s the word I mean.”
“It isn’t. Proving what a conscientious student you were.”
“Well, you’re a dear old thing, and I wouldn’t have your job for ten million dollars.”
“Let’s not speak of money, Morris. I’m saving that topic for luncheon, which is almost ready, by the way. I see you gentlemen have already had your cigars.”
“Yes, we know only too well what we’re going to get for lunch. Chicken in library paste as usual, I suppose. Vary the menu next year, Arthur, and you may find us more generous.”
“Be more generous, and I’ll vary the menu,” said Arthur Francis Ferris. “And now, Morris, run along, will you please? I’d like to have a word with Mr. Lockwood.”
“Well, what’s he done that the Rector has to take him aside?” Morris Homestead, genuinely mystified, left them.
“I thought I ought to speak to you beforehand, Mr. Lockwood. The fact is—your wife and Mrs. Downs have had words. My sister, Mrs. Haddon, is acting as hostess today, and she was there for part of it. Took place upstairs in the Rectory. Constance wouldn’t tell me what was said, but apparently it was rather unpleasant. A rather unpleasant exchange, in fact. I’m telling you this now because I wanted you to understand why we’ve changed your places at table. George and Sterling Downs and their two families were scheduled to sit next door to each other, but we’ve seperated you. I’m very sorry this had to happen today of all days, but I gather from what my sister told me that whatever the cause, it’s been coming to a head for some time. So I thought it best to forewarn you. The boys are going to expect to be seated near each other, but you’ll know why we’ve changed that.”
“Very unfortunate,” said Abraham Lockwood . . .
I went upstairs to use the toilet and she was just coming out. I didn’t bother to say anything to her because I said good morning to her a couple of hours before, and I don’t get any pleasure out of wasting words on her. The slut. But she took umbrage because I didn’t speak to her, and she made a remark, an unladylike remark. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I did. If you want to know what the remark was, all right, I’ll tell you. She said she was glad she could use the toilet before me instead of after me. I let it pass. I didn’t let on I heard it. I just went in, and when I came out she was still there in the room, waiting. I started to walk past her, but she stood in my way. “Please let me pass,” I said to her. “Not before I give you a piece of my mind,” she said. Maybe those weren’t her exact words, but something like that. Not before I give you a piece of my mind. Not before I say what I have to say.” It was something to that effect. I wasn’t listening to her very carefully. I just wanted to get out of the same room with her. I wanted to get a hundred miles away from her. And from everybody else here, for that matter. This is no place for me. I’m a Pennsylvania Dutchwoman from Richterville, Pennsylvania, where people like me and respect me, and treat me with politeness. Where I was born my folks are respected. Just let any of these New England Yankees or Philadelphia Quakers come and see us in Richterville, what people think of us. They’d soon find out that there’s one part of the world where Adelaide Hoffner counts. That’s how I was raised. I wasn’t raised to think myself anyone’s inferior, and no matter what’s happened to me since I was a young girl, I never learned to think myself as anyone’s inferior.
You go to Philadelphia, or come here to St. Bartholomew’s, and anyone can tell that you feel their inferior. You pretend as if they were your chums, and some of them pretend it too, but you’re not chums with them. They have their own chums, and you’re not one of them. I had all these years to think about you, and I could have told you something about yourself a long, long time ago, but I thought you’d get over it. But you never have. The first time I ever knew you, at my sister’s wedding, you were so handsome and such a conceited person. But I should have asked myself, “Who were you?” Abraham Lockwood from Swedish Haven was all you were, no better than the younger fellows at Barbara Shellenberger”s. Just older . . .
Anyway, she stood in my road, this Martha Downs. “What do you mean, walking in here and ignoring me?” she said. “I spoke to you once, that’s enough,” I said. “I don’t wish to speak to you any more, so please get out of my road,” I said. “You talk like a bumpkin and you are,” she said. “I’d rather be a respectable bumpkin than what you are,” I said. “How do you know what I am—unless your husband told you?” she said. “Nobody had to tell me what you are,” I said. “My husband didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t have to,” I said. “Any wife knows when her husband’s been with one of your kind.” Oh, we said more than that, back and forth, till finally she said, “I think I’ll take him away from you again.” “Again?” I said. “I never took him back. What’s been in you I don’t want in me.” Then this Mrs. Haddon came in and said, “Ladies, ladies,” and I said, “Singular number. Don’t put me in the plural with her,” and then I came down here.