He went downstairs and from the dining room the boy called to him. “Is that you, Father?”
“Yes, my dear. I have to go back to the office. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Father,” said the boy.
Charlotte should have been—but was not—grateful to Ben if for no other reason than that Ben’s drastic introduction to swimming put Joe on equal terms with Arthur McHenry. Arthur had learned to swim the same way, but earlier than Joe, and Charlotte did not like the idea that Arthur could be better at anything than Joe was. She had plans for Arthur even at that age: Arthur was a nice boy, a quiet, steady boy, well born and healthy, and devoted to Joe. The friendship between the boys was a natural and genuine thing and needed no more than propinquity for a start. But Charlotte gave it active and thorough encouragement. She wanted Joe to have a suitable friend; a boy with the same background but an ancillary personality. She was not convinced that at the age of six Joe was a brilliant boy in the things of the mind, but she correctly judged her son to have the makings of a brilliant personality. He had good looks that were not likely to suffer during the distortions of puberty and adolescence. (The fine thin nose, the beautifully formed thin lips.) His way with servants was something you were born with, almost never acquired, almost never lost. At a children’s party he was the child whom, besides their own offspring, the other mothers looked at. He was accused of arrogance and insolence before he was ten years old, and in most instances the accusations were unjustified. But the mothers of lumps of children felt keenly the difference between their own scions and the Chapin heir. Joe, the most mannerly child, was subject to the severest scrutiny because his slightest departure from the conventional politenesses was automatically exaggerated by the very fact of his usual good manners.
At a party at the Montgomerys’ when Joe was ten an incident occurred that affected various lives out of proportion to the words and deeds making up the incident. The game was Hide the Thimble. The thimble was hidden, and the children trooped into the parlor to search for it. Blanche Montgomery, the mother of the nominal host Jerry Montgomery, made the customary announcement: “When I say you’re getting warm, that means you’re getting close to it. When I say you’re getting cold, you’re getting farther away. Does everybody understand?”
Yes, they all understood.
They milled about until one little girl said: “Who’s the warmest?”
“The warmest? Henry Laubach’s the warmest,” said Blanche.
“No he isn’t,” said Joe Chapin.
“Oh, yes he is, Joe,” said Blanche Montgomery.
“Oh, no he isn’t,” said Joe.
“Please don’t be rude, Joe. That’s naughty,” said Blanche.
“But Henry isn’t the warmest,” said Joe.
“Then suppose you tell us who is,” said Blanche.
“Arthur is,” said Joe.
“I hardly think so. Arthur’s very cold.”
“Ha ha ha.” Joe laughed. “Are you cold, Arthur?”
Arthur laughed. “No, I’m boiling hot.”
“Are you the boiling-hottest one in the room?” said Joe.
“Ooh, I’m scalding hot,” said Arthur.
“Just a moment, please,” said Blanche. She walked to the part of the room where a puzzled Henry Laubach was standing. “Someone has played a nasty trick, and I think we all know who it is,” said Blanche.
Some of the children provided her answer: “Joe Chapin! Joe Chapin!”
“Have you got the thimble?” said Blanche.
“No,” said Joe.
“Or Arthur McHenry?”
“Yes, I have it,” said Arthur.
“Then hand it over, please, and we’ll start the game again without you boys. No prize for either one of you.”
“But I found it and I gave it to Arthur,” said Joe.
“You played a deceitful trick on all the other children. You’re a spoil-sport,” said Blanche.
“But I’m not, Mrs. Montgomery. I saw it first, as soon as we came in the room,” said Joe.
“That must have been before the game started,” said Blanche.
“No, it wasn’t. The game started as soon as we came in, I thought,” said Joe.
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“That’s not fair. I found it first and I gave it to Arthur and he was the warmest.”
“That is not the way the game is played, and you know it. And what’s more, I don’t like little boys to be impertinent.”
“I wasn’t impertinent,” said Joe.
“Yes you were. You always are. You think you’re a lot, but you’re not.”
“Then I’m going home,” said Joe.
“Me too,” said Arthur McHenry.
“You’ll do no such thing. Kindly hand over the thimble and we’ll start the game over again without you two boys.”
Arthur handed her the thimble.
“You boys can sit here, and now, children, all the others go out in the hall and we’ll hide it again. All others go out in the hall, please. No, Joe. Not you. Not you, Arthur.”
“We’re not going out in the hall, we’re going home,” said Joe.
“You’ll have to wait for your carriage,” said Blanche.
Joe stared at her for a few seconds, then suddenly he ran, followed by Arthur, out of the house, without stopping for cap and coat. The woman hurried to the porch, calling after them, but her voice only made them quicken their speed.
The Montgomery house was on Lantenengo Street, on the other side of town from the Chapins’ on Frederick Street. The boys stopped running at Main Street and spent a half hour looking in the shop windows and otherwise disporting themselves, picking up some mud on their shoes and stockings and incidentally catching the beginnings of colds in the late-winter air. When darkness began to come each boy went to his own home.
Blanche Montgomery was with Joe’s mother in the sitting room.
“Mummy?” called Joe.
“In the sitting room, dear.”
“Don’t track up the whole house with your muddy shoes,” said Martha. “Let me wipe them off.”
“Martha’s taking the mud off my shoes,” called Joe.
“Take off your shoes and come in here,” said Charlotte.
The boy went to the sitting room. On seeing Blanche Montgomery he hesitated.
“I want you to apologize to Mrs. Montgomery for leaving her house that way.”
“I apologize,” said Joe, and turned to leave.
“Is that all, Mrs. Montgomery?” said Charlotte.
“I’m sorry this had to happen, and—”
“We’re all sorry it happened. Thank you for coming over. Very considerate of you. Martha, will you see Mrs. Montgomery to the front door?” Charlotte emphasized front door only slightly.
Blanche spoke to Joe; “I’m sorry this had to happen, Joe. Next year I hope we’ll—”
“Yes. Thank you very much,” said Charlotte.
Blanche Montgomery left the house and Joe gave his version of the incident, a true one.
“And that’s all? You hadn’t been misbehaving before the game started?”
“No, Mummy. And besides, that was the first game. And we didn’t even get any refreshments.”
“You can hardly expect to get refreshments if you leave the party before it’s time. I’ve told Martha to give you your supper in the kitchen. I’m very disappointed in you.”
“But why, Mummy? She just as much as told us we were cheating and we weren’t. I saw the thimble first.”
“That’s not why I’m disappointed in you. A gentleman doesn’t make scenes. You were a guest in their house and you’re supposed to abide by the rules of the house you’re visiting. I’ve told Martha, no dessert.”
“What is dessert?”
“Floating Island.”
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“But I love Floating Island!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s your punishment, not only for forgetting you’re a gentleman, but for not coming straight home. What if there’d been a runaway and the horses dashed up on the sidewalk?”
“I would have run inside the stores.”
“Never mind the ready answers, please. I’m very disappointed in you, very, very disappointed. Now go have your supper and get ready for bed.”
The Montgomerys of that day were on an equal footing, socially, with the Chapins and the McHenrys, although Blanche Montgomery was not a Gibbsville girl. She was a Reading girl who had come to Gibbsville as a bride. She was, in fact, a distant connection of Charlotte’s, but Charlotte had not “done anything about her” when she came to Gibbsville, an oversight for which Charlotte was now glad.
“Have you anything pending with the Montgomery firm?” she asked Ben that evening.
“How do you mean, pending?”
“Well, any business negotiations?”
“No, why?”
She gave him her own version of the party incident.
“Well, if you mean are we on a friendly basis with the Montgomery firm, don’t let that worry you.”
“Worry me?”
“Aren’t you planning some sort of reprisal, retribution?”
“Not exactly, not exactly. But I wanted to make sure.”
“We’re more likely to be in opposition to the Montgomery firm than otherwise. They handle cases that we have to refuse because of our Coal & Iron association. How are you planning to put Blanche in her place?”
“You’re so clever,” said Charlotte. “Well, I haven’t had time to consider.”
“I wouldn’t like to be Blanche Montgomery,” said Ben.
“She deserves whatever she gets. She has it coming to her. Of course it may take time.”
“Whatever time it takes, Charlotte, she’ll know why you’re doing it,” said Ben.
“Yes, but how much—simpler—if she doesn’t know I’m doing it, whatever it is. Bess McHenry. If she had a little more character, and yet that’s in our favor. She hasn’t much character, therefore Blanche won’t look for trouble from that quarter. Let me see now, is Bess Miller related to the Montgomerys? I don’t think so.”
“No, no relation,” said Ben. “Before you go any further, ask yourself if the Montgomerys know any of our weak points.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had any weak points,” said Charlotte. “At least that would be worth anything to the Montgomerys.”
“In that case, damn the torpedoes, go ahead!”
“I’ll need your help. You may hear of something they want to do and we can prevent their doing. I’m glad I never called her when she came to town.”
“Yes, it would look hypocritical now,” said Ben, with a completely straight face. “You hadn’t thought of giving a large party and not inviting them?”
“Oh, Ben. How un-subtle men are.”
“I daresay. If Blanche were to take a lover . . .”
“Blanche? In Gibbsville? Nobody has lovers in Gibbsville,” said Charlotte. “Where would she meet him?”
“I’ve often wondered.”
“You have?” said Charlotte.
“Why, yes, and so have you, my dear, or you wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.”
“Dear, dear, dear me. We’re so deucedly clever. I know where they could meet. In the summer house. There was a famous case and you know it better than I do.”
“Yes, and ever since then no respectable woman in Gibbsville ever goes to her summer house without her husband. Summer house became practically a synonym for house of assignation. Well, this kind of talk does me no good. You decide on your own form of revenge, my dear, but don’t start the wheels going without consulting me. We may have skeletons in our own closets.”
“I don’t like that simile.”
“It’s a metaphor. I didn’t think you’d like it, but do bear in mind that there is one thing about you and me that would make a nice morsel of gossip. The protecting mother that is no wife to her husband.”
“You may come to my room tonight, Ben. If your desires are that strong, that you’d risk my life and unquestionably, unquestionably start a baby that isn’t even a—that there’s no name for. You have a son, healthy and beautiful and to be proud of. But you never saw the others, and I did. However, you have rights to my body, I suppose.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it Charlotte.”
“I never would, if I had my way. But I know this much, Ben. If you did come to my room, and I did have another of those—things, and that’s what they are—I swear to you I’d take Paris-green, drown myself, anything.”
“You’re in no danger, Charlotte.”
“I’m never sure when you talk this way,” said Charlotte. “I think I’ll drop a note to Bess and ask her to have a cup of tea. Now you, Ben dear, why don’t you smoke a cigar? It always rests you.”
“Yes, I believe I will, and a glass of brandy.”
“Whiskey, Ben. The brandy gives you those heart palpitations.”
Bess Miller McHenry was a large blonde Pennsylvanian whose fixed attitude was that of a woman who was attentively listening to each word of every speaker, following the conversation from speaker to speaker as though she were a speechless moderator, a powerless but conscientious judge. In so doing she always kept her mouth slightly open as if tentatively half-forming the speaker’s words, but when she was included in the conversation she was invariably taken by surprise, and had nothing to contribute. She had an accompanying habit, which was to start nodding in agreement before her vis-à-vis had declared anything. She wanted to give no trouble, to receive no trouble, and her life was dedicated to the comfort of Arthur Davis McHenry, her husband; to Arthur Miller McHenry, her son; to Pansy McHenry, her daughter; to the house on South Main Street where she made her home; to Trinity Church; and to the canary birds which she talked to in terms and volume which she withheld from human beings. She belonged to the sisterhood that are commonly called good women.
Bess McHenry knew that the summons to tea at Number 10 Frederick Street was related to the incident at the Montgomery party. Her own inclination would have been to forget the whole matter. Her son Arthur had been punished for his participation by being deprived not only of dessert but of supper, and the reason for his punishment was that he had committed a breach of etiquette in leaving the party before it was time, a somewhat different crime from the subtler one of not behaving according to the rules of the house one was visiting. Things were simpler in the McHenry household.
Charlotte had assumed semi-invalid status among her friends and it was generally accepted that “Charlotte doesn’t go out.” A visit to Charlotte consequently was always opened with some remarks about her condition. It was for the most part an age of reticence and there was no need for specific anatomical report; Charlotte had some female trouble and no matter how curious her friends might be, none of them took the initiative in finding out what the trouble was—and Charlotte most certainly never volunteered anything.
“You’re looking well, Charlotte.”
“Thank you, Bess. And so are you. That’s a perfect color to go with your eyes.”
“Oh, this? I bought the material in Philadelphia last October and I had Mrs. Hammer make it into a dress for me. I was going to get rid of Mrs. Hammer, but after she made this I decided to give her another chance.”
“She needs the work so.”
“She needs the work so, yes. Yes, she does need the work. What do you pay her, Charlotte?”
“Well, I haven’t had her doing any sewing for me lately.”
“Oh, she hasn’t done any sewing for you.”
“Not lately, but I’ve really had so little sewing that I haven’t done myself. I like to sew.”
“Yes, you’ve always liked to sew, haven’t you? I wish I had more time for the nice sewing. I do the children’s mending and some of Arthur’s things, but that doesn’t give me much time for fancywork.”
“Yes, I do some of Ben’s things too, and all of Joe’s. The darning is the only part that I don’t like.”
“The darning, I don’t like that either. Isn’t darning a nuisance? I have a basketful at home that every time I look at it, it just seems to say to me, ‘Bess, you’re neglecting your darning.’”
“Boys’ stockings,” said Charlotte.
“Boys’ stockings are the limit.”
“But not really a chore, not for our boys. Arthur is such a delight. Ben and I often congratulate ourselves that Joe has such a fine boy for a friend. Best friend.”
“Oh, dear. Joe is—I can’t put it into words how much we love Joe.”
“And so nice together.”
“Aren’t they? They’re so nice together.”
Charlotte sighed. “I wonder why a woman like Blanche Montgomery—now how can she call herself a lady?”
“Exactly.”
“Our boys must have been to dozens of parties, dozens—”
“At least,” said Bess, and then, as though she had counted: “Dozens.”
“And behaved like little gentlemen, always. You know, Bess, we’ll never get to the truth of what really happened at Blanche Montgomery’s house. I most assuredly didn’t believe the cock-and-bull story Blanche told me. You know she came to see me that very day.”
“Did she?”
“Before Joe got home, spattered with mud from the street, and the start of a heavy cold. Oh, yes. Blanche was here making accusations against a ten-year-old boy, two ten-year-old boys. Arthur as well as Joe. Did Arthur catch a cold too?”
“A slight one, yes.”
“That’s what I thought. Something happened that made those children want to leave that house without waiting to put on their hats and coats. It may have started over the game of Hide the Thimble, Bess, but there must have been more to it than that. There must have been.”
“Oh, I think so too, Charlotte.”
Charlotte smoothed her skirt and folded her hands. “What can we do about Blanche Montgomery?”