Actually these terms of the will were not so much a puzzler to George as an irritating reminder of the degree to which he had misjudged his brother. Pen Lockwood had been the kind of man to whom you said, “Don’t do anything rash,” and evoke laughter from the man himself; and yet the newspapers had specifically used the phrase “rash act” in their accounts of Pen’s death. Now there was this will, with its substantial gestures toward Ernestine and Bing, to create the inference that Pen Lockwood had been less dazzled by his brother than had appeared to be the case. George wondered whether he had been given the real reason for Pen’s staying out of the candy company deal, for instance. He made a mental note to reexamine other instances in which Pen had opposed him. One instance worth reexamination was Pen’s extreme diffidence when George was expecting automatic approval of his decision to marry Geraldine. In the long run it might turn out to be a compensative exercise if he could rid himself entirely of all sentimental feeling for Pen. Present indications were that Pen had been, in his quiet way, a tricky bastard. Why else had he provided Ernestine and Bing with so much cash?
Because of the various delays of communication and travel, Ernestine had not returned from Europe, and was not present for the reading of Pen’s will, which took place in the library of Wilma’s house. Those present were Wilma, George, and two lawyers, and the meeting lasted less than an hour. When the lawyers had departed Wilma said, “Well, what did you think of it?”
“He was rather generous to my children,” said George.
“And made sure I didn’t make any foolish mistakes,” said Wilma.
“Well—don’t you ever make mistakes, Wilma?”
“What do you mean by that, George?”
“A rhetorical question. We all do make mistakes,” said George.
“You probably meant a great deal more than that, but I’m not going to try to worm it out of you. I’m not up to it,” she said. “I thought Bing and Ernestine had to be here.”
“No. Nobody has to be here.”
“When my grandfather’s will was read, it was up in the country. House near Rhinebeck. The diningroom, I guess because it had so many chairs. Every stable-boy that was getting five hundred dollars. All the maids. Two men from Harvard. And family. A mild punch was served, I remember. Everybody was quite embarrassed because my grandmother, who was quite fat, and also quite deaf, let go with one of those high-pitched farts that she was famous for. She always looked around to see if anyone had heard her. They had. And she was furious. Nobody was supposed to hear her. Like the king that didn’t have any clothes on. But one of the maids and one of the stable-boys giggled. The maid was fired the next day.”
“But not the stable-boy?” said George.
“I don’t know why she didn’t fire him. I guess because good maids were easier to get than good stable-boys. In those days.”
“Have you made any plans?” said George.
“Tentatively. I’m going to sell this house and rent a small apartment. I hope to travel.”
“That seems sensible. Get Dorothy to go with you?” said George.
“Oh, she’d never leave Sherry for any length of time. No, I’ll have to find someone else. Where is Ernestine now?”
“She’s in London, but I want her to come home.”
“Why?”
“Because she ought to. She should have been here long before this. When there’s a family crisis, you ought not to be allowed to pretend that nothing’s happened. And that seems to be her attitude. She had some excuse for not getting here for Pen’s funeral, but she should have come home as soon as she could.”
“I’m on her side. What earthly use is there to come home now?”
“Wilma, I don’t want to have to be unpleasant, but I can be and I will be. I don’t want you interfering in my children’s lives.”
“Now just a minute, George. That’s twice you’ve said things that sound to me like innuendo. Just what are you driving at?”
“If I were driving at something, I’d hit harder and you’d be in tears.”
“For somebody that doesn’t want to be unpleasant, you’re getting awfully close to it.”
“I hope I don’t have to get any closer. And so saying, I shall now make my departure. I’ll be at the office all day tomorrow, and the next day I’ll send up some papers for you to sign. You’re going to have to sign a lot of papers, and I suggest you find a good lawyer, especially if you plan to travel. You may want to sign a limited power of attorney. But don’t give it to Mr. Hyme. Legally, you can, but if you do you’ll be making a great mistake. Not your only mistake in that line.”
“I’ve lost interest in Mr. Hyme.”
“Yes, I suppose you have. But this time get an older adviser.”
“I think I hate you, George. I really think I do.”
“But not enough,” he said.
“Not enough for what?”
“To make it interesting,” he said.
“But I’ll bet I could,” said Wilma.
He nodded. “You almost did, a few weeks ago. But things may have changed since then. I have to go now, Wilma. Thanks for the story about your grandmother.”
“Don’t make too much of it, George. She was also a very great lady,” said Wilma.
At the office George wrote a stern letter to Ernestine, insisting on her return to the United States without further delay. She could, of course, refuse. She had her own money, she was twenty-six years old. He therefore was obliged to make his demands on ethical grounds, and to exercise some restraint.
It is simply a matter of family loyalty [he wrote]. Your brother came all the way from California despite the fact that he and I have had our differences. He returned to California without our relations having been improved, but at least I shall always respect him for the respect he showed your Uncle Pen. You will shortly be notified that Uncle Pen left you a large sum of money . . .
Ernestine came home two weeks later. George and Geraldine were at the train to meet her in the Packard instead of in the chauffeur-driven Lincoln or Pierce-Arrow. The gesture was not lost on Ernestine. “No Andrew?” she said.
“We wanted to meet you ourselves,” said George.
“You didn’t have to go to that trouble,” said Ernestine.
“We wanted to,” said George.
After dinner Geraldine retired. “You two will want to talk,” she said. “I’ll be in my sitting-room.”
Talk did not commence the moment the father and daughter were alone together. They made several false starts with trivialities, then Ernestine changed chairs, lit a new cigarette, and opened up. “You didn’t make me come back here without some reason, Father, and I’ve been trying to figure out what it was. By the way, I hope you’re going to reimburse me for this trip, because I was planning to stay abroad.”
“Were you? I was under the impression that you were only going to be gone a couple of months. I’m not trying to get out of reimbursing you. But when you left you had no intention of staying very long.”
“Then you are reimbursing me?”
“I said I would, or implied it.”
“Good. Well, while I was there I changed my mind. I would like to live abroad for at least a year, maybe longer. Maybe much longer. Right now I’m tempted to say I’d like to live abroad permanently.”